Secondhand Sparks
by Marie Vulffe
Summary: Movie AU w/ G1, Armada influences. Then Prime began to speak once more, and the chill she thought she'd banished was upon her again. "Barricade was not always as you knew him, Mikaela - he was not sparked into being as a Decepticon. Once, he was one of my most able, most trusted advisors."
1. Prologue: Start A Fire

**A/N:** This is set just after the first movie, and is an AU. ROTF will be incorporated into it later on, but with some obvious differences. Also, this will eventually cross over with X-Men (mostly movieverse). Don't worry, I intend to write as if people have no idea what's going on, so if you don't follow that fandom, have no fear.

Also, this will contain several adult themes somewhere down the line, so be warned. Innuendo will abound, **INCLUDING **that of botxhuman, and some parts will be more explicit than others. If that makes you squick, feel free to hit the back button.

Any feedback y'all can give me on my portrayal of the characters, the plot, technical glitches, etc. is welcomed with open arms and mind. Just keep in mind that everyone has their own version of pretty much everything, as every mind has its own unique filter through which they view events and people, so if my ideas differ from yours or offend, please feel free to tell me so in a _courteous _manner.

Lyrics © Audio Adrenaline.

**Secondhand Sparks**

**Prologue: Start a Fire**

_It only takes a spark to get a fire going._

It was three o'clock in the morning when the signal was picked up by Ratchet's comm. They'd been driving for a while, her and him, wending their way down the country roads that marked the outskirts of Mission City. The metropolis at night was quiet, almost too much so, but the occasional 911 call or gunshots still came across his radio, broadcasting so that Mikaela could hear everything he did.

Optimus had 'insisted' (his own pleasant way of saying 'do this or your aft is slag,' in Mikaela's opinion) on helping with the cleanup of the city. There hadn't been too much back-talk; down to the last mech, they all felt responsible for the destruction of the unsuspecting town that had become their battleground. But Ratchet had worried that they would be recognized. Mikaela wasn't so sure about that - not much of their alt modes had been in view during the battle royale; most of it had been spent in their natural 'bot forms, and _that _was something they were going to be sure to keep under wraps.

The government, bless them, had done a nice, neat cover-up of the whole episode, and now everyone thought they were Japanese (or Swedish, or German, or Canadian, depending on who you talked to) Gundam prototypes, created by their enemies overseas. Of course, the original news feed had stated in no uncertain terms that it was just a military experiment gone awry, there were _no _terrorist plots to overthrow their government via mind-controlling robots, these were not the droids you were looking for, etc, etc. And, as was the norm, people came up their own interpretations and filled the Internet with them until the original story was a pleasant memory.

Business as usual for the humans.

Briefly, Mikaela wondered when she'd gotten so cynical. Then she took another look at her surroundings, in the back of a EMV Humvee that was actually a grumpy alien robot medic, and remembered. _Oh, yeah. _Spending as much time as she did with Ratchet, it was a miracle she had any idealism left in her.

But it wasn't in her nature to be so sardonic. Sure, she was a down-to-earth gal (and didn't _that _little phrase take on a whole new meaning); she worked with machines and technology. It was a part of who she was to be sensible, the voice of reason. But the Autobots had given her a little taste of what life was like on the other side - to believe in something else, something bigger than yourself and what you could hold in your own two hands.

That was something else she wondered about, when she let herself. Did the Cybertronians believe in a God? They'd mentioned a Primus in her presence several times, and something about the Matrix (something she was almost _afraid_ to even think about), but what were -

And suddenly, right there in the middle of her theologically ground-breaking thoughts, was a sharp, keening sound. It brought her up to the front of the Hummer immediately, all thoughts of God and Primus out the figurative window as she tilted her head to listen.

Almost as suddenly as it had come, it was gone again, lost to soft static. With an irritated grunt, she touched a control on Ratchet's console. "You get that, Ratch?"

"I did, Mikaela. But I seemed to have gone out of range. I shall attempt to remedy that." And he did, by throwing himself in reverse without any warning whatsoever and causing the girl to sprawl ungracefully across his dashboard. She pushed herself up with a huff, and gave the medic a dirty look (which consisted of glaring at the steering wheel), even as she strapped herself into the passenger's seat.

"A little warning wouldn't have gone amiss, you know."

"You are undamaged, Mikaela. And there is no need to express your frustration with me; I can smell it all over the cab."

And with that unnerving remark, he continued driving backwards down the little road they had been traveling (they would be in the city proper, but for all that Ratchet was a genius, he could _not _remember to keep his hologram driver stable.) After only a few seconds of this, maybe ten, the signal was picked back up. The medic promptly threw himself into park, barely giving himself enough time to come to a complete stop, and Mikaela was once again a victim of inertia, this time smacking the back of her skull on the headrest. _At least the damned thing's padded_, she thought sourly to herself.

"Ratchet, I keep _asking _you to let me drive every once in a while - "

"Quiet, youngling. Listen."

Her mouth thinning in annoyance, she obeyed.

She quickly realized that this wasn't normal. Whatever it was, whatever it was coming from...she'd never heard anything like it. "Ratchet, do you have any idea what this is?"

No reply.

"...Ratch?"

Still nothing, save the snarling, hacking signal that rent the air around her.

She touched the console, worried now. There was a sinking feeling in her gut, and she didn't like it one bit.

And suddenly there were words.

"...Inj...pl-s...pond..._kzssshhh_..._KZSHH_...Ba-ade...nyone, please _reKRRZZSHHHH _- "

Mikaela jerked away from the dashboard with a yelp. "The _HELL_. Ratchet, what _is _this?"

He finally answered over the static. "I believe it is a Cybertronian distress signal, youngling. Of Autobot or Decepticon origin, I am not certain."

She let out a hiss. "You're serious. Here? I thought that Optimus had all channels open, that he could pick up any Cybertronian signals coming into the atmosphere."

"He does, and he can. This...is something else altogether." There was an odd note in Rachet's voice that lent credence to the knot in Mikaela's stomach. "No one has landed here. I believe...they may have been here for some time. Since the Battle of Mission City."

Mikaela sputtered, running a hand through tangled hair. "Since - wait, is that _supposed_ to make sense?"

"I believe, " and the certainty in his voice became stronger, "that we may be hearing the distress signal of one of the Decepticons that Optimus fought with on his way to the city. Why we haven't heard it before now, I cannot say. Regardless...we must investigate."

Her heart had stopped at 'Decepticon,' and now it kick-started back up with a vengeance, hammering double-time in her chest. "You're serious," she repeated, pressing herself back into her seat unconsciously. _Decepticons._ Jesus.

"Indeed I am, Mikaela. What we just heard could have come from an online Decepticon, one still functional enough to do serious damage to the Autobots and all we have worked for." He paused for a moment, then, realizing her fear, attempted to allay it. "Do not worry, I have already informed Optimus on a secure channel. We will have back-up in twenty-two minutes. All we must do is sim - "

And then the speakers _roared_, overriding Ratchet's voice completely as the signal burst through. "_If you are within range, I am injured. Decepticon, Autobot, ASSIST ME." _Then a steady stream of what Mikaela instantly recognized as the Cybertronian language; coordinates, perhaps.

Like before, it died as quickly as it came. Mikaela slowly let her hands fall away from her head, where she had attempted to buffer the deafening sound. Her chest was tight with dread, and something else...almost like anticipation, but _worse_. She swallowed the bile that suddenly rose in her throat, but it still stung when she finally spoke.

"Ratchet...I know this is going to sound insane, but _I think I recognized that voice_."

* * *

She should have known sneaking out of her grandmother's house to go joyriding with a giant alien robot was going to have consequences. But only if she got caught, or so she thought at the time.

Now it didn't seem to matter.

Mikaela thought she'd died and gone to her own special Happy Place when Ratchet had agreed to take her on as an apprentice. Sam had suggested it, Optimus had backed him, and Bee had nodded enthusiastically throughout the whole thing. It was with much grumbling and slamming of instruments into walls that he had, rather reluctantly, conceded their point - If they were going to live among the humans, to trust them, work with them, there would have to be some sort of cultural exchange. Mikaela was already, in her own opinion (and Sam's, and Bee's), a kick-ass mechanic. But to train to become an Autobot medic? An alien robot doctor? She'd literally gone weak in the knees at the thought. It was simply practical, they said. And Bee...he wouldn't have anyone else work on him. He wanted to be her 'first,' as he'd coyly put it in song (the imp! He'd known exactly what he was doing), and she had wanted so badly to help him walk again.

So Ratchet put her to work, and as a result, she hounded him day and night, sometimes calling in the wee hours of the morning with a question that kept picking at her brain until she couldn't sleep. He regretted ever remodeling that cell phone with Cybertronian technology, he bemoaned again and again to her. It helped her communicate with him and the rest of the Autobots over distances, translating their comm. speak into text on her screen, and in return, she could call them up and talk to them over the same system, or just text them back. Talking to aliens over the phone. How intense could you _get_?

But throw her grandmother and Sam's parent's into the mix...chaos. Absolute, utter fragging entropy. The 'rents had _freaked_, and grounded him for the next month, and Gramma Jodi...Mikaela was still worried that the old lady was going to have a spark - _heart_ - attack every time the phone rang. When she had tried to subtly mention this to her Gramma, the woman had looked at her like she'd just suggested cannibalism, or Democrats. She was a Banes, and Banes' didn't _get_ heart attacks. They were salt of the earth Southerners, good, solid stock, and made of sterner stuff than todays grandma's, all soft fluffy hair and store-bought cookies. (Her Gramma's cookies were made from nothing but scratch.) But still...giant alien robots. The woman had to have a breaking point somewhere.

Thus, the sneaking. The 'bots disapproved, especially Optimus, who had an honorable streak a few miles wide, and they all wished there were a less deceptive way to get around things. But things were what they were, and you did what you had to do. So Ironhide said (he was the least upset by the goings-on, unsurprisingly).

Not to mention the fragging _military_. The politics and procedures involved in that headache...well, gave her an even worse headache. Of Megatron-sized proportions. She and Sam thankfully didn't have to deal too much with them, save the Captain, who really wasn't that bad. They'd even met his family a couple of times, and _God _was his kid cute. But.

There was always a but, she thought ruefully.

Right here, right now...not much fun was being had, by anyone, by any means. If the government caught wind of this - and it was only a matter of time before they did; the squad of Marines, tentatively named N.E.S.T., assigned to assist (spy on) the Autobots _had_ to report this at some point - then the fecal matter was going to hit the rotary device. And she was going to be right in the middle of it, Primus help her.

(She was already beginning to sound like them; wasn't that something?)

She watched Ironhide unload the poor fragger onto what passed for an examination table in Ratchet's 'lab' - just a sectioned-off space that housed his various medical equipment of DOOM - and couldn't help but wince at the resulting noise. 'Hide wasn't being gentle, to be sure, and she didn't really blame him.

This was _Barricade_, after all. Or what was left of him, after Optimus handed his aft to him all of two months ago.

Had it really only been two months? It felt like longer. Then again, everything she did (after meeting the Autobots and nearly becoming scrap in a life-or-death battle of epic proportions) had a vague, almost dream-like quality. Yet at the same time, she had never felt so _focused_. Like everything had a new, refined edge to it, and she had to step lively, or she'd get cut to ribbons.

She had the feeling that she'd never really lived, until now.

...Which meant she'd better savor every damned moment, because once the military found out they had a Decepticon - incapacitated or not - in their facilities, she had a foreboding feeling that she was somehow going to be roped into the middle of it. And then she might be detained for questions, which could lead to accusations, which led to charges, which led to -

- An absolutely ridiculous, histrionic line of thinking. She was overreacting. Letting her _hormone_s take over, as Ratchet would no doubt say.

She blew out a frustrated, shaky breath, and turned her attention back to the wreckage that lay in front of her.

He looked...like scrap. Like something you wouldn't even find at a junkyard. She really didn't want to think about what Optimus could have done that resulted in this...carnage. He must have been _pissed _to do something like this, even if it was to the enemy.

She thought she had a handle on the guy, sort of. And from what she knew of the Autobot leader...this looked almost like he'd been _tortured_. Torn apart limb from limb, literally, and left to rust, spark still intact, but completely immobilized.

And Optimus wouldn't do that to someone...not his own kind. Surely.

She bit her lip, and tasted blood.

_And maybe I'm so far off the mark I'm in another galaxy,_ she thought with a sinking heart.

* * *

"You want to _WHAT?!"_

Yeah...yeah, she thought Ratchet might respond like that.

"I want to bring him back online. If he knows something, maybe we can get him to talk. Use his...disability, as it were...to our advantage."

"Absolutely not. We - you - _are not repairing him_. I forbid it. We can get whatever answers we need from his central processors - I simply need to create and upload a program to his mainframe that will draw them out. He doesn't need to be _awake_ for that."

He said it with such vehemence, such _loathing,_ that Mikaela actually started to back up, before catching herself. She drew in a breath to calm herself, and reminded herself that she had expected something like this. But she was Mikaela Banes, and resistance was _futile_, dammit. She had her argument all planned out, emotional blackmail and everything, and she was _not_ about to give up before she even got to the good part.

"Okay. Okay. Look, Ratchet. I have actually _thought _about this, you know. It's not like I walked in here ten seconds ago and said to myself, 'Gee, Mickey, why don't we wake up the big bad Decepticon and see what he does! Hey, the worst he can do is _roll over _on us.' "

Her sarcasm was not appreciated, she noted, as Ratchet drove a spanner into the wall beside him. "Slag it, Mikaela, don't you think I know that? You're an intelligent creature, which leads me to beg the question, _'why, for the love of Primus, WHY_?' I simply see no logic in this. It is an unacceptable venture, and I will have no part in it."

She waited a beat, then dropped her little bombshell. "Optimus agrees with me."

Silence.

Then, "This is a joke. This is one of your little human jokes, and you're going to wait a few more astroseconds for me to wind myself up some more before pointing and laughing hysterically at me. Aren't you."

Mikaela made a small, apologetic noise in her throat. "No, Ratch, I'm afraid I'm really, deathly serious about this."

"...you do realize I might have to step on you."

"I wouldn't blame you in the slightest."

"Good. You'd best start running, then."

She obeyed, with all haste.

* * *

Eventually Ratchet caved, like he always did with her. After the initial blind, all-consuming rage had worn off, he and the others, especially Optimus, had talked at great length. Though talking may have been an exaggeration; shouting, hollering, roaring...take your pick. And throwing things. There was a lot of that.

So it was with a little trepidation that she watched Optimus and Ratchet approach her three days later, in the charging bay. She'd been tinkering with a random servo joint of Barricade's, idly picking at a severed neuron cable, when she felt their shadows fall across her. She swallowed, and immediately set the piece off to the side, hoping they wouldn't have noticed. They did, but neither mentioned it, save for a raising of optic ridges from Optimus and a wordless scowl from Ratchet.

"Before we partake of this endeavor (oh, Primus, he was being formal; that could either bode well or very, nauseatingly ill), we must speak to you on the subject of Barricade himself, and just who he is."

That sounded...intriguing. She nodded, and fell in step beside them, only subconsciously noting how slowly they moved, so that she might keep up with them.

Optimus continued speaking. "Once I realized that there was logic to your argument, I knew that it would only be a matter of time before I would have to tell you what you are about to hear.

This is classified, youngling, make note of it. The government of your United States does not have any need for this information, as it does not pertain to anything concerning them. It is a matter that deals specifically with my own command, and the ranks within. And it is...a sore subject, for all of us. Especially after losing Jazz."

Mikaela took a moment to glance down in remembrance of the fallen Autobot warrior. They had been unable to repair him, as several of the parts needed had been irreparably damaged, and there were no suitable replacements that Ratchet could, or was willing, to use. They had spoken of something called The Ark, mentioning that the crew aboard her (a ship, she had reasoned) would have the necessary pieces to put him back together; but they had not heard from them in _years..._almost a millennium, if she did the math right. The Autobots stationed here on Earth had no idea of her current location, and there was no feasible way to hail her. Mikaela reckoned, from what she had gleaned from different conversations between the mechs, that Earth was a bit like the galaxy's version of the sticks - out in the middle of fragging nowhere. That was...rather depressing. But it also made it that much more fascinating as to _how_ the Autobots, not to mention Megatron, had found it in the first place, All Spark or no...

Anyway. She looked back up, watching Optimus' face the best she could from her (disad)vantage point so far below him. He must have sensed this, because both he and Ratchet paused, then without any further warning shifted into their alt modes. She had never gotten tired of seeing it, and watched in awe as the last cogs and servos disappeared into the seemingly innocuous bodies of a Semi and a Humvee. After a moment, Optimus' driver-side door swung open, inviting her in. She obliged him, grunting a little with the effort took to climb up into the cab. She was far from out of shape, but _damn_. Truck drivers must have absolutely _wicked _quads.

They made their way off base, and ventured a ways into the countryside. All was silent, save for the rumble and growl of the engine. She wondered what was so important that they wouldn't want to speak in front of the others, including Ironhide. Bee and Sam were at his house, working on college transcripts (college! Already! They weren't even seniors yet, but the Witwickys were adamant that Sam be the first in their family to get into a college - _any _college.). The military personnel present for the moment only consisted of the Master Sergeant and a handful of underlings; Captain Lennox - Will, he'd insisted they call him, you don't save the world with someone and keep calling them by their last name - was currently at home with his little family in Southern California, taking some much needed time with his young daughter, not even a year old yet.

But still. She knew where they were headed, so she didn't complain.

Soon enough they were at the Lookout, and Mikaela hopped out of the cab right before they shifted again. From behind her came the whine of gears pulling and shifting, and that strange electronic noise that told her they were powering up. She didn't look back; instead, she found a comfortable spot against the trunk of the small, drooping tree that sat at the cliff's edge.

Optimus took a minute to gaze out over the valley, and she wondered, yet again, what he was thinking. You think you know a guy, and then you see his limbless, rusty-pulp carcass of an enemy. Despite the warmth of summer all around her, she shivered.

They took stations on either side of her, settling down till they were a little more at her eye-level. It did a little to alleviate what would have been a serious crick in the neck, but it was mostly the gesture itself that counted. It was a sign of equality, of respect, that they would bring themselves down to her level, and for that she was grateful.

Then Prime began to speak once more, and the chill that had come and gone in an instant revisited her.

"Barricade was not always as you know him - he was not sparked into being as a Decepticon. Once, he was one of my most able, most trusted advisers.

A highly competent military strategist; between Jazz and he, there was no battle they could not maneuver to their favor. Not only were they both my highest-ranking officers, they were spark brothers as well, together in everything.

His designation was Prowl."

* * *

I got the initial idea for Barricade's identity after hearing about the Transformers movie for the first time, and i'm like, cop car? GEE, GUESS WHO. Alas, it was not to be, but this is what i ended up with, after seeing the movie a bazillion and one times too many. Also, further ideas for what happened to him were sort-of spawned from a fic i read on here a long while back. I've looked and looked, but can't find it again. Maybe once i post more, people will know what I'm talking about, and y'all can help me track it down. I have to give the author credit for the original idea, after all, but i need to know WHO IT IS. (no, i will say nothing more until the actual story gets posted. NO SPOILERS FOR YOU.)


	2. Don't Worry, Bee Happy!

My apologies; I didn't realize it would take this long to get out. To everyone that's reviewed, thank you _uber-_bunches! Also, please check my new AN in the first chapter; I've updated it to give some more specific disclaimers/warnings.

Feedback is always loved. If you spot any mistakes, or have some grievances with the way I've interpreted some Transformers lore, then please feel free to inform me. Or just tell me you want me to continue; I'm not really picky. On with the show!

All of Bee's convo is © someone that isn't me. Quote © Bob Marley.

**Secondhand Sparks**

**Chapter One: Don't Worry, Bee Happy!**

_Don't worry about a thing - every little thing is gonna be alright._

So. A traitor.

The word left behind a sour taste, even in her thoughts. Traitor. Turncoat. Back-stabber. _Judas_.

They'd told her all about Starscream. His repeated attempts to usurp Megatron were somewhat legendary, and from what she had gathered, sounded like the quintessential Decepticon - conniving, power-hungry, and hell-bent on destruction. Built-to-order evil; no ifs, ands or buts.

But after what she'd just learned -

There was a whole new level to the game, now. An undercurrent of sinister purpose lay behind those red optics, and it wasn't because they'd been programmed that way.

They_ chose _it.

The word – traitor – implied a decision made, a turn of conscience. These weren't just machines anymore, albeit ones with their own quirky personalities and strengths and weaknesses.

Not that she'd ever _really_ thought of them as simply machines – you'd have to be deaf, dumb and freakin' blind to think that. But...Ratchet had once told her just a little about their origins, enough for her to assume that the Autobots had indeed been built for something other than war. And the Decepticons – like she said, built-to-order evil. Weapons from their sparking. Destruction was their main objective, programmed into their central processing units.

But for an Autobot to actually change sides, change his mind, change his _primary function of being_, to that of a Deception?

And just when she'd thought she had it all figured out, too – something like _this_ comes along to bite you on the ass.

She stared blankly down at the spiral notebook in front of her, running her pencil absently up and down the metal rings. Half-sketched doodles of what could have been the anatomy diagram of a robot covered the page, complete with illegible handwriting to label the different pieces. It was mid-afternoon on a Friday, and she had barricaded – ah, bad word choice there – herself in the garage, sprawling out across the length of the threadbare couch in one corner.

It was one thing to have the blueprints already handy, and have the pieces all out in front of you, jumbled together in one crazy mess. Coming up with your very own Autonomous Robotic Organism was like...rubbing your stomach while patting your head while eating sushi with chopsticks while riding a horse bareback and blindfolded...you get the idea.

She stared for another minute, and when the drawings and words starting all bleeding together, she flopped down face-first onto the paper, moaning.

There had to be some way she could make sense of this chaos.

With a shuffling of papers, she twisted around until she was on her back, letting one leg dangle off the edge of the couch. She stared blankly up into the dark rafters, idly drumming her fingers on her stomach.

They had assumed she would have him rebuilt according to his original format, but she had other plans. What they would think of her idea she hadn't a clue, but she was hoping it wouldn't be met with disapproval and raised voices. If she could get the idea past Optimus, then she was practically in the clear – if their Prime approved, Ratchet could hardly refuse. He could, however, throw a few wrenches in her plans – and she meant that in the most literal sense. Mikaela didn't _want _to have to use Optimus as leverage; she liked and respected the sardonic medic, and prayed that she wouldn't have to resort to blackmail to gain his cooperation.

She swung her leg idly, but the rhythmic _whump-whump_ of it hitting the couch irritated her. Exhaling noisily, she hoisted her feet up over the arm of the couch, and inspected the tips of her worn sneakers from where she lay. She needed new ones, she thought idly, wiggling her toes inside the fraying footwear. They were faded red Chuck Taylors, more pink now than anything. She didn't wear them out anymore; they were strictly for working in the garage. Mud, grease and tar covered a good portion of them, and the soles were almost nonexistent. They were getting a little too snug up front, and her toes occasionally cramped, but they were one of the last things her dad ever gotten her _legitimately, _and they were special.

She clicked the heels together, three times in a row, and smiled to herself. Lifting her eyes back to the ceiling, she blinked back the sudden prickling sensation that threatened to turn into tears. This wouldn't do, she decided, and pulled herself up into a sitting position, feet still resting on the arm of the couch. She leaned towards them, wrapping her fingers around the soles and tugging, stretching out her back. She stayed that way for a minute, letting her body sag against her legs, and took a deep, bracing breath. When she looked back up, intending to stand and take her work back up to her room, something caught her eye just beyond her toes.

The bright blue of the tarp stood out against the dark stone walls of the garage like a banner, and she ran her eyes across the shape she knew was hidden beneath its folds. It was her father's pride and joy, a customized Ducati Monster from '96, and she wasn't allowed to even _think_ of it until he was released (so said Gramma Jodi). It may not have been the most popular bike in the world, nor the fastest, but her dad loved it like a second child. He'd promised her a ride as the first thing they'd do together when he got out, and she could hardly stand the wait.

The Monster was an old childhood memory, one of a few not tainted by her mom or her dad's so-called _business_. He'd bought it legit from the dealership, brand new off the floor, a few months after her mom had left. An act of defiance, she supposed, though she never was sure where he got the money – it wasn't like they had it to throw around, after all. But he had all the papers for it, and a license, and the cops never could find any evidence that pointed towards his more shady dealings. It was one of the few honest things of his that she had left, like her worn-out shoes.

Blowing out another sigh, she swung her legs back to the floor and made to stand up. Beneath her hand, the notebook crinkled, and she paused, looking down at it for a minute, gaze skimming over the sketches and half-formed thoughts that she'd jotted down. Blinked. Then she glanced back up, over at the tarp. Back down again. Studied one doodle in particular, of a faceless rider bent over the handlebars of a half-formed sportsbike.

Slowly, she raised her head to stare at the tarp again, and felt like an idiot.

She'd being going about this from the wrong direction.

* * *

"…It's doable, I suppose."

"So this could work? I know it's a lot smaller frame than the original, but I didn't really think it mattered at this point." And she cast a pointed glance at the living corpse that resided in one corner of Ratchet's medbay. It's – his – limbs were placed in an orderly fashion below the pulverized, warped torso that housed the faint spark and little else. No, she didn't think it mattered that he would soon be downgraded from a four-door to a motorcycle – his body was so scrapped that it practically gave her a clean slate to work with.

Ratchet gave a rusty-sounding sigh. "It doesn't. Although why you still want to do this is beyond my logic processors, but Optimus approves, and Ironhide's backing him. I can't really argue with that." He sounded almost as cross as when he'd first heard of the absurd idea to reformat Barricade. Thankfully, that particular fit hadn't lasted very long, and it had been far from his beloved supply of wrenches.

Using the transformation cog had been Mikaela's suggestion, something that would make this project move along much more swiftly. At first she'd tried to assemble an alt form for the offline Decepticon, attempting to use parts of cars or SUVs in order to structure his frame. That plan had fallen through faster than one of Starscream's when she realized just how complex it would be.

Putting together a protoform, a basic outline of a body, would both take less time and also put her knowledge of Cybertronian physiology to the test, without breaking her brain. It was, surprisingly, ordered similarly to that of a human body – besides the obvious head, torso and limbs, there were veins and nerve clusters placed similarly to hers. To build any machine was to start with the frame, the chassis, and then move on to the outer components. The transformation cog would take care of the rest. They simply had to activate it, and scan the vehicle of choice, and presto! Instant alt mode. She was still mentally kicking herself for not thinking of it sooner.

And why was she doing this in the first place, they'd all wondered?

Really, it was the challenge. She'd fed the you-could-use-all-the-mechs-you-can-get line to Optimus, and of course she'd meant it – so far there had been no new arrivals, no responses whatsoever to Prime's broadcast, and they had to step up their game_ fast_ before the Decepticons made their next move. But she also wanted to be _useful_, not just the girlfriend of the guy who saved the world. She had plans, and they didn't involve sitting on the sidelines.

So she would add a new weapon to the Autobots' arsenal. Courtesy of a reprogramming virus that was ready to be placed in Barricade's central processing unit, once his body was complete they would have another soldier to wield against their enemies, and give them an edge that they desperately needed.

As to the material dilemma – if they couldn't rebuild Jazz, just how was she planning on building a whole new mech? - she had an answer ready for them. She'd dug deep into the 'net, even calling up Glen, the computer savant, to help her out. He, being the absolute geek that he was, knew exactly what she was looking for, and gave her all the info he could track down on the special material.

Adamantium was mostly speculation and urban legend at that point, but she'd heard things through gear heads she knew on the Web. It was a promising start, and when she put all the information in front of Ratchet, he'd immediately done his own research on the mythical metal. His own routine scan of the Earth as he'd entered the atmosphere all those months ago confirmed what she'd discovered. It was with a shiver in his processors that he realized this, along with the last remaining shard of All Spark, could be the answer to Jazz's predicament.

He looked down at the notebook, so tiny in his enormous hands, and eyed the sketches there with something like trepidation. It _could_ work, he thought ruefully; they just needed to figure out how to handle the material. They would have to prepare molds in advance – once the substance cooled, there wouldn't be a degree hot enough to reshape it. Only the mech's nannites would be able to alter it, in order to configure the alt mode to the protoform.

Repairing nannites were a thing of miracles, in his opinion, despite his firm belief that science was the answer to just about everything. They could break substances down to the most miniscule particles, and pull them back together seamlessly, leaving no trace that there was ever more than one piece. He'd had to rely on them almost more times than he could count for a vast percentage of his more delicate operations, and they almost always came through - it simply depended on the mech. They had to _want_ to survive, and no amount of repair and steady, dedicated maintenance could change the outcome if a body gave up the will to fight. He only hoped that once he downloaded the reformatting virus, some of the old Prowl's determination would resurface, and provide the necessary measures it would take to finish the process.

He glanced back up at the human that stood so confidently before him, and scowled. She didn't even blink, which made him just made him glare harder. A cool smile was her only response, and he muttered something unintelligible under his breath, and handed her back the notebook.

"So when do you want to start?"

* * *

Tracking down Adamantium was only the beginning of what would become one of the longest, most arduous, and ultimately most life-changing missions she'd ever taken part in. Anything that could top it would be like…rebuilding Cybertron, she reckoned later.

Of course, the whole time it was happening she never gave it too much thought, save for the occasional resurfacing in the Real World, when Sam would drag her away from the lab and out to a movie, or bowling, or some other activity that his parents deemed 'respectable.' Not that there was anything _wrong _with any of that, but it always put the reality of her situation in sharp relief, causing her to pause and wonder just what the _hell _she was thinking, trying to build her own robot.

Then Sam would glance down at the hand he was holding, the once baby-smooth skin marked by growing burns and scratches, and frown just a little, and she would scowl back at him. "It's what I want to do," would be her usual reply. She'd tried explaining it to him, and to an extent he understood. The need to be helpful, to pull your own weight amongst an alien species that consisted of minds vastly superior to your own. To feel like you were contributing, and not just along for the ride. He saw all of that, but still protested, up to a point.

"You really need to get out of the Garage more, y'know? Mom's been complaining – she wants your Gramma over for dinner again, and not just _her_ this time. Seeing as how you're my girlfriend, it's kind of a given that you would be there. At my house, eating my food. Partaking in family outings. Or innings, I guess, I don't know what you'd call it. Whatever, you should come."

He'd gotten a little better at catching himself before he started rambling, but still managed a mouthful sometimes. It made her smile and roll her eyes most of the time, like now. "I already said I was sorry for that. I just get caught up in my work, is all."

"And I get that. It's hot that you like your work so much. But do you think you could like it a little less _often_? It's not like he's going to just get up and walk away while you're not there…is he? I mean, he doesn't even have legs yet, so I don't think he can really run too well – "

"Sam. He's not even _awake_, much less functioning. That's why I want to get this done, so we can have more time to ourselves." A little white lie, not entirely false, but not an absolute truth, either. She _adored_ spending time with Sam. He actually made her feel worth something. Like a real person, not just a possession, and it was a feeling she treasured. And the fact that encouraged her passion for machines was something she'd never had before. His utter devotion and enthusiasm for her caught her off-guard, made her a little uncertain. What were his motives? Was he building up to something? When was he going to start plying her for sex?

All this and an alien race in my backyard, she thought sardonically. How did she ever get to be so lucky?

They were never far from her mind. Even when she was out with her clique, an occurrence that became more and more rare with time, she was laying out specs, drawing mental energon lines in the back of her head. One time she dropped her moped keys in her soda, and she spat out a Cybertronian curse automatically, not thinking to correct herself. When she looked up from fishing them out of the drink, she met raised eyebrows and bemused smirks. "What?"

"Ever since you starting going with that Witticky kid, you've been acting like you got pulled from the Twilight Zone. And now, what, you two have your own language or something? That's sick, Mikaela."

Once school started again, things changed even more noticeably. She came to class one morning in the same shirt she'd worn yesterday, for starters, which got people talking for the next week. She'd resumed sitting with Sam and, she noted with a slight grimace, Miles, which was also a point for gossip, though not as much as it had been last year.

Her personal favorite was the coverall fiasco. She'd actually gone so far as to spend the night at the Autobots' warehouse, and the only extra pair of clothes she had with her had gasoline spilled all down their front, an incident that had involved an arguing Ironhide and Ratchet. To add to the general madness, she'd gotten woken up late by a grouchy Ironhide, who succinctly informed her that he was not her personal alarm clock, and had to break several traffic laws in order to beat the final bell. She'd ended up wearing her working coveralls, and just about died of embarrassment when she stepped in through the doors to find every pair of eyes glued to her.

Sam had saved her, finding her after first period and lending her his gym shirt – he made Miles give up an extra pair of shorts he'd had stashed in his locker. All in all, it was an unfortunately memorable day. It did make Miles finally warm up to her a little, when she thanked him humbly and profusely for his pants, and bestowed a kiss on his glowing cheek.

Of course, when she got home that afternoon her Gramma gave her an earful. She had called her the night before (more like early that morning), and made sure the older lady knew where she was, so she wouldn't go running off to the cops to report her missing. Not that Gramma Jodi would actually do it – she was understandably wary of the police, after the treatment her son had received at their hands. None of that, however, stopped the woman from venting her considerable spleen on her granddaughter. From now on, she snapped, if those aliens had any consideration for an old woman's heart at all, they'd do her the courtesy of giving her only grandchild a ride home at night. Then she proceeded to call up Optimus and give him the same speech, which he received with a generous amount of patience.

One day she sat down and realized that it had been six whole months since she'd started her project. It boggled her a little, that so much time had passed and seemingly so little had been done. In her eyes, at least; Ratchet claimed that they were making excellent progress, and she had to take his word for it. The molds had been completed, and they were refining the Adamantium now. Soon they would be melting it down, and piece by piece the Decepticon would become whole again.

She shivered a little when she contemplated the process that would render him useful. They were going to have to infect him and wipe his processing core clean, in order for them to bend him to their will – any useful data would be filtered through and stored separately. It was a wholly unpleasant thought, one she ignored when she could, in favor of the more physical aspect of her work.

She had some ideas on how to modify the bike, adding a frail for one thing – he was going to need somewhere to fit his armor, she supposed, and the extra engine covering would do nicely. It seemed almost a crime to cover up such a beautifully naked machine, but sacrifices had to be made. And honestly, the whole frame could stand to be widened; if they wanted him to have any bulk whatsoever, they'd have to. She could tinker with the transforming cog and see what she came up with. There should be a way to enlarge the scale – Ratchet could help with that; he was the more mathematically-inclined between the two of them.

So she submersed herself in her work, and as time went on she slowly lost sight of the little details – the late nights, the missed dates with Sam, the sidelong glances at school. Things that used to mean the world to her suddenly took a back seat to her new obsession, and it wasn't until dinner with the Witwickys one evening that it all came crashing down on her.

* * *

"So, Mikaela, what exactly _are_ your plans after high school?" Judy Witwicky delicately speared a head of broccoli and popped it in her mouth, never once taking her wide, assessing eyes off the girl.

_The same thing it's been since, oh, junior high?_ She thought to herself sardonically, and repressed a sigh. It seemed like no matter how many times she tried to rebuff them, the Witwickys held on to this topic like a junkyard dog with a particularly juicy trespasser. For what felt like the five hundredth time that evening, she smiled her General Audience smile, and set her glass back down. "Mrs. Witwicky, I really just want to go to junior college – get a degree in business or financing." Her usual answer, perhaps edged with the tiniest bit of exasperation. How many times did she have to say it before this woman would believe it, anyway?

From out the corner of her eye, she caught Sam's wink, and let her smile deepen for a minute, before turning back to her plate of lasagna and mixed vegetables. To her right, Ron Witwicky picked through his own plate dubiously, eyeing the lasagna in particular. "Hon, you sure this meat is cooked all the way through?"

"Oh, for the Lord's sake, Ron, I _do_ know how to cook," Judy retorted, stabbing said food with a little more force than necessary. Forking a mouthful, she chewed thoughtfully for a minute, before eyeing her own plate a little suspiciously. Beside Mikaela, Sam groaned.

"It's perfect, Mom, seriously. This is grade-A grub right here, huh?" And he shot a look at Mikaela. She nodded vigorously, making sure to take an extra-large bite of her food, and gave Judy the thumbs-up. This seemed to pacify her somewhat, for she turned her full attention back to the girl, and spoke as if their conversation had never been interrupted.

"Yes, but what do you want to _do_? I mean, obviously you don't want to work in that smelly old garage the rest of your life."

Mikaela felt that familiar twitch in her eyebrow, and her lips drew back into what she knew wasn't a nice smile. She felt more than saw Sam start beside her, but ignored him. More for his sake than anything, she made an effort to compose herself, smoothing out her napkin with a deliberate air of calm, and straightening the silverware that lay on top of it, all the while counting to ten in her head.

When she looked back up, her smile wasn't quite as twisted as it had been, but it never reached her eyes. Taking a deep breath, she finally responded. "Actually, Mrs. Witwicky, I really _do_. I fully intend to have my own garage by the time I'm thirty." She sat back in her chair, relishing the comically surprised expression that the older woman wore. "That's why I want to go into business so badly. If I'm going to run a successful company, I'll need to know how to manage it in the first place."

On her other side, Ron Witwicky slumped in his chair. "So you _don't _want to be a lawyer?" He asked, somewhat plaintively. He and his wife had agreed that, if Mikaela was going to be sticking around, it may come in handy to have a lawyer in the family or at least on a first-name basis. Hopefully Sam wouldn't screw up too badly and alienate her. Really, it would be just their luck to need some legal help and get stuck with a vengeful ex.

The girl in question blew out an exasperated breath, not bothering to disguise it. "No, Mr. Witwicky, I'm pretty sure I don't want to be a lawyer. As much incentive as I might have –" and here she glanced at Sam very quickly, to which he responded with an apologetic grimace – "I really, _really_ don't want to sit behind a desk all day and clean up other people's messes." Although she was fairly certain that Ron and Judy knew about her father – Sam may not have ever known had Simmons not let that fun little detail slip, but that didn't mean that his parents were totally oblivious to the goings-on at their only son's school – they had never actually said anything to her. Which surprised her (okay, it actually shocked the hell out of her; she was expecting at least a _joke_ from Mrs. Witwicky, but so far nothing).

And then Sam went and ruined everything by doing what he did best – letting his brain compute directly to his mouth without using that handy-dandy thing called a _filter_. "Well, you're already working for the government, so you're probably picking up some tips from Ratchet – didn't he used to be some sort of diplomaaaat...ic…d…di…

_damn_."

He slumped down in his chair, muttering the oath into his lasagna. Mikaela stared at him, a little bit irritated and not really surprised. Vaguely she registered his mother sputtering into her wine, and his father rapping out a sharp "_Excuse _me?"

Slaggit, they weren't supposed to _know _about that. Nice, Witwicky. Real nice.

She swallowed back the acid that rose in her throat, and grit her teeth against the harsh words that threatened to escape. Instead, she turned back to the table's other occupants, ignoring Sam for the time being, and proceeded to do damage control.

It was no secret at _her _house that she worked underneath the Autobots' authority, and by association, the Army. What she did and everything she learned there stayed at their makeshift base, of course, but her Gramma knew where she went and that she worked (unpaid, of course) alongside government-appointed agents. Not literally, because if she had to spend _that_ much time around the current liaison, she was going to pull an Ironhide and kick a damn _tank _halfway across the state out of sheer frustration. But officially (or unofficially, if you wanted to wanted to look at it that way), she was under the employ of the United States government.

And as of right now the Witwickys hated them with the fiery passion of a thousand suns.

So no, them having any idea that she worked with the people who had disrupted their lives so rudely and unashamedly (discounting Director Keller's personal and, she thought, rather heartfelt apology to them in person for all the chaos that had been dumped into their laps) was not high up on her list of 'things to discuss with your boyfriend's parents.' It was way down there towards the bottom, along with 'my dad's a jailbird and if Sam and several very indignant Autobots hadn't stepped up for me, I would probably be right there with him.'

Sitrep: screwed.

Mikaela did her level best not to squirm beneath the two gimlet stares being directed towards her. She'd faced down guns bigger than this table, she'd faced Ratchet when she accidentally snipped a neuron cable in his neck and made him suffer through two days of everyone asking him why he kept twitching like that – she could take on a couple of disapproving humans, right?

She swallowed nervously and gave them her most charming, shit-eating grin.

* * *

Half an hour later, her ears were ringing, and she was curled up in Bumblebee's back seat, fuming and biting back hot, angry tears. _How dare they._ How _dare _they presume to know what she wanted. They didn't even know _her._

_You're not a kid anymore, Mikaela. You have to be_ realistic_. _

_They're going to pull you in and suck you dry, and then you'll be left all on your own – what about your grandmother?_

_You need to get a real job. Hiding out in a garage and playing with cars and giant aliens isn't going to get you anywhere in life._

_Do you even _see_ your friends anymore? What do you _mean_, those things are your friends? I'm talking about your own kind! _

_You can't trust them – eventually they're going to realize that they've got better things to do than play around with you, and start experimenting on you, and don't you come crying to me when they cut you up and study your appendix!_

…Granted, Judy _had _been a little tipsy. That didn't make it hurt any less, though.

Poor Sam, he was outside the garage door, calling to her to let him in so they could talk. And he had tried so valiantly to defend both her and Bumblebee. But the mech had locked the door up tight, and he couldn't get in. With a snarl, she scrubbed furiously at the tears that pricked at her eyes. She tried to turn her tell-tale sniffle into a casual snort, but it didn't quite work. In the background, she could hear Bee's radio playing something soft and wordless; anything with lyrics would be sure to get her wound up again, and she needed like hell to calm down.

Trying to distract herself, she leaned into the front seat to check her mascara; it hadn't done much but get a little blurry. Still, she dabbed at it with the hem of her blouse, and Bee obligingly crooned '_yo__u're beautiful'_ in James Blunt's voice. Sighing, she patted the seat beside her. "Thanks, Bee. Even though I don't think you really know the difference between 'drowned cat' and 'runway model,' but it's appreciated."

His engine sputtered, sounding a little indignant. She had to smile at the sound, something familiar and dear to her. And for some reason it struck her, really _hit_ her, that yes, she was inside a car, talking to it, and it was talking back. Not like the junkers she spent hours beneath the hoods of; they had their own language, one of gasping rattles and pings and chugs, an unconscious, mechanized tongue, from inanimate objects she'd spent a lifetime learning about.

But she was sitting inside a 2007 concept Chevy Camaro, chatting away, and it was responding to her the way any other human would.

Without warning, a giggle bubbled out of her, and then another. Suddenly, she was clinging to the front passenger seat, laughing so hard she couldn't support herself, sounding absolutely hysterical even to her own ears. Bumblebee's engine revved, and the seats beneath her shifted some, and she knew if he was in his true form, he'd be cocking his head in confusion. Still she couldn't stop, and she pressed her damp face to the warm leather, trying to catch her breath.

"S-sorry, Bee...I just think I might've gone crazy for a second." She still quivered with suppressed laughter, and she finally leaned back, sinking into the seat. She swiped halfheartedly at her face, not really caring about her makeup anymore, but trying to make an effort.

"_What's up, pussycat?"_ Queried the radio, and for some reason it almost set her off again. With an effort, she forced it down, and took a deep, cleansing breath.

"I think it just hit me – how ridiculous and seriously_ fuc__ked_ _up _this whole thing is. I mean, here I am worrying about disappointing my boyfriend's parents with career choices, while sitting inside a giant alien _car_." She snorted, and pushed back her hair.

"_There's no need for you to worry,"_ sang Aaron Neville, and Mikaela smiled a bit. The song continued –

"_If you worry about tomorrow,_

_It will only bring you sorrow…"_

She hummed along absently, and suddenly, like clouds lifting, she felt a little better. Not completely, but it was a start. It was true, she decided. Who were they to make her worry and feel bad about herself? She was an _adult_, dammit, and she knew how to make her own choices. And why was she so worked up about it? Two people's opinion wasn't the end of the world – she'd been there, done that, ripped up the t-shirt. It was like comparing the engine of her moped to…well, Bumblebee's.

They didn't know anything about her, or her life, or what she felt. If she wanted to spend the rest of her life in a greasy, cluttered, noisy garage and work on alien cars, then she'd go right ahead and do it. Worrying about what could come next was like trying to – trying to see the future at the bottom of a wine bottle, as her Gramma liked to say sometimes. All you got was a giddy feeling and a huge headache come morning. Pointless.

"_So?"_ Chirped the radio, and she let her smile widen. He might not have said much, but it was enough to get her head back on straight. He really was one of a kind, she decided, and ran a thumb down the detailed stitching in the seat. Bee shuddered happily and tilted on his carriage a little.

"So I think you're right. I'm not going to let a couple of squishies tell me what to do. I know my own mind, and trying to worry about it won't get me anything but a headache."

The horn beeped, a sharp, encouraging staccato of notes that reverberated in her ears. With a hoarse chuckle, she shook her head and popped open her door. She squared her shoulders and held her breath for a moment, letting it back out in a hearty gust. The Camaro rocked happily, and she moved to pat him. The fine-tuned engine purred in contentment.

She really needed to apologize to Sam, at least, for storming off the way she did. He'd done his best to buffer her from his parents' drunken ire, but all he'd seemed to do was make things worse. Still, not his fault. He was, at heart, a Momma's Boy, and it seemed to impede his stronger rebellious impulses at times. Despite the frag-fest tonight had turned out to be, it was really one of the things she loved about him – his devotion to his parents. It was something she could relate to, and she respected him for it. "I guess you should let him in now."

He did so, to the tune of the Black-Eyed Peas' "_Let's Get It Started!"_ She snorted and shook her head, and turned to face a very worried Sam.

* * *

TBC.

Not meant to be a cliffie, sorry. I don't know if next chap will pick up immediately after this or not…maybe y'all could tell me what you want. Also, I _so_ didn't mean to turn the Witwickys into close-minded uber-bigots. It's more of a plot device than anything. They'll come around, eventually.


	3. Fear and Love

My sincere apologies to everyone who's been waiting for this update. Forgive me if I haven't responded to your review. **Uniasus**, here's your slice of Gramma. **LionLover190, Risuna-Phenix, Noods, Rockubyebaby**, your enthusiasm is contagious, and I hope this update makes your day. **Angellic dragon**, we probably won't be meeting Barricade for another couple of chapters, unfortunately. But no longer than that. Enjoys, guys. The quote is from William Butler Yeats.

As to the end of this chapter – don't stone me. She's not a Mary-friggin'-Sue, I swear I on whatever you want me to swear on. I have one word for you. _Armada._ Try to keep an open mind, as there are a thousand interpretations of this character out there, and mine…well, I think you're going to enjoy her. As I mentioned in the note in the prologue, this will be an AU. There are certain events that took place that were rather different than in the movie, and that story is actually halfway completed. Look for it in the near future, to learn more about this particular character. So sit tight, people, I promise everything will make sense _soon._

**Secondhand Sparks**

**Chapter Two: Fear and Love  
**

_We are happy when for everything inside us there is a corresponding something outside us._

The med bay was still tonight; Ratchet was catching a couple hours of recharge in the back, and the doors were set to emergency entry only. If someone like Ironhide or even Optimus needed access, an alert would come in through Ratchet's comm., but the doors would remain locked until he himself turned off the security device. The only current source of light came from the large, transparent tank that sat off to the far left of the doors, almost hidden from view by a tall rack of spare parts and medical equipment. The stasis chamber, compiled of concrete, unrefined lead, and bulletproof plexiglass, housed the dormant form of Barricade, keeping the slight radiation leak from his unshielded spark at bay, and stabilizing the faint energy that kept him alive.

Set up against the wall adjacent to this, the assembly line lay quiet and still. The only thing that moved in the darkness of the room was the girl, as she retraced her steps back down the side of the long, narrow machine. Pieces of Adamantium armor still lay in their molds, shining brilliantly in the cold blue light cast from the chamber. She set a hand to one piece, what looked like a shoulder guard, and the chill from the silky-smooth metal ran up her arm. Colder than it should have been, really. Running almost reverent fingers across the curve and dip of it, she leaned closer, until her breath fogged the nearly perfect reflection of her eyes. The metal seemed to retain an almost otherworldly chill, a complete contrast to the smelting heat of the casting furnace it had recently been through.

_Tomorrow,_ she thought with a giddy swoop in her stomach. _Tomorrow, you'll have a purpose. And I'll be the one to give it to you._

Hands still palming the slick armor, she turned so that she could just see the glowing stasis chamber from behind the monolith of a supply rack. The dim, blue light gave off a slow, steady pulse, almost like a heartbeat. She knew that sparks were, in the most basic of ways, the equivalent to a human heart. But it was so much more than an organ that pumped out life-giving fluids; it was the very essence of their being, the energy that kept every single one of their numerous systems going, from their weaponry to their transformations to their memory processors. It was as if the ancient Egyptian belief, that the heart was the origin of the soul, had been brought to bright and effervescent life. It both fascinated and unnerved her.

The sluggish rhythm of the pulses had a calming, almost hypnotic effect, and she let her hand slide off the piece of armor, fingertips lingering for just a moment before dropping to her side. With an air of caution and curiosity, she moved towards the glowing chamber, her footfalls silent beneath the gentle hum of the energy coming off of the machine. She'd never been allowed within a couple of yards of the thing, even though it was_ her_ project, and she had every right to inspect it if she so chose. Ratchet, whether through a healthy dose of paranoia or something else entirely, refused to let her near it – that rack in the way was her 'boundary line.' It wasn't as if the mech was going to wake up and start shooting, anyway. It was just a box full of static electricity, nothing more - so she told herself. Something nestled deep within the instinctual roots of her brain whispered something else entirely, even as she sidled up close to the chamber, closer than she'd ever been before.

Bathed in the soft glow, watching the strong, steady waves of electricity roll through the compartment, she almost didn't catch herself as she leaned into the glass. She pulled back hastily even as strands of her hair slowly start to waft upwards towards the static. The girl ran a distracted hand over her head, absently smoothing the crackling wisps back into her ponytail. This close up, she could see the cracks in the armor that housed the dormant spark, the tiny slivers of blistering light that seemed to be demanding to be set free. Even in stasis mode and torn down to mere fragments of himself, the Decepticon blazed with vitality. Something else she noticed, the phenomenon that caught and held her undivided attention, was the way the waves of energy seemed to deepen and become brighter, the closer she moved to it. Was this a normal occurrence? Or possibly just the Con's twisted spark, sensing a human nearby.

The whole thing rested about level with her nose, which meant she had to stand on tiptoe if she wanted a fuller view. She scowled and _hmm_'ed to herself, craning her neck to get a better look at the rest of the shredded chassis. _How,_ she thought to herself somewhat irritably, _how is Ratchet going to keep me away from this once we start the building process?_ _What am I supposed to do, install some radiation-insulated gloves into the side here and work through the glass? As if._ She grunted in annoyance, carelessly reaching up her left hand up to steady herself on the transparent covering as she tipped forward.

Several things happened at once, none of it expected and all of it…well, shocking.

The entire tank shuddered and lit up like a mini supernova, and the jolt of the sudden electrical surge juddered up her arm agonizingly. Mikaela bit back a yelp and pulled back sharply – or at least attempted to. It felt as if her hand was magnetized to the glass, securing her in place as the energy swept through her. As she opened her mouth to call for Ratchet - if he could even_ hear _her right now - she tasted ozone and felt sparks snap between her teeth. Around her the air cracked and bled lightning, the built-up friction igniting the oxygen-filled space and setting it on fire.

Her lungs felt compressed, and suddenly she couldn't breathe. The energy that was confined to the chamber burned ever brighter, churning like a white-hot firestorm in a hurricane. As she tried desperately to suck in another breath, the light from the tank phased right through the indestructible material as if it wasn't even there, and engulfed her trapped hand. It lingered there for a moment, burning as if she had stuck her limb into a chest of ice and left it there. The precious air she had so arduously fought for was released in a rush, and the corporeal light swept up her arm and wrapped itself around her, moving in long, sinuous strokes around her neck, down her back and legs. It ghosted across her bare skin, leaving a chilled, tingling sensation in its wake as it enveloped her briefly.

And just as abruptly as it had escaped, the light receded, and the entire medical bay went pitch black as the energy collapsed in on itself. Nothing. Not a flicker of light, anywhere. In the darkness, Mikaela found herself holding a much-needed breath, eyes wide and unblinking as spots floated in her vision. Blood roared through her skull, pounding in a harsh, staccato beat in time with her hammering heart.

_Okay. Okay. So. That happened._

The air exploded from her chest, and suddenly she found herself on her knees – she couldn't remember how she got there, but her legs felt watery and unstable, and her entire body was a limp, wrung-out noodle. Panting, she raised her head on a wobbly neck and tried to get a look at the chamber she knew was right in front of her. Of course she still couldn't see anything, but in her mind's eye it was lit up like the Fourth of July. The image of her hand glued to the glass, the angry, twisting energy that consumed it and everything around her, stayed on the back of her eyelids. She opened them wide, and palmed away the sweat that she felt trickling through her hairline.

And then she could see again, just barely. She was looking down again, settled awkwardly on her hands and knees, and the pale blue light crept across the tips of her fingers, reflecting dully on the concrete floor in front of her. With a startled grunt, she propelled herself off the cold, hard ground, searching for something to lean on, _anything_ besides the stasis chamber. Finding nothing but the supply rack behind her, she backed away on rubbery legs, searching with her hands for the metal she knew was there. Fortunately, it was far too big and heavy for her to tip over, and she leaned into it gratefully. The blood still pounded in her ears, drowning out her raspy breaths. She never once took her eyes off the dimly lit vault, but the only thing it did was glow – rather smugly, she could almost swear.

She waited for another excruciating, endless minute, struggling to catch her breath. Never once did the light beat out of time; it kept the same sluggish, steady tempo it had before she had come and screwed it up. Finally she discovered that her legs still worked if she moved them, and wasted no time in beating a hasty retreat. Her vocal cords worked just fine, too, as she bellowed for Ratchet to _wake the hell up_.

* * *

Aside from a tender palm and fingertips, she checked out alright. The same could not be said for her pride, as the medic blistered her ears for the entire duration of her exam. She took it as part of her penance for disobeying a direct order, and didn't try _too _hard to defend herself as a result. Will hovered in the background, along with a stoic Optimus – who didn't so much hover as _loom_, as unobtrusive as she was sure he was attempting to be.

Ratchet had just finished up with a very direct threat to take the entire project away from her, when Sam and Bee came bursting through the unlocked doors, the mech blaring out the Cavalry Charge from his speakers. "Crap, Mikaela, what did you _do_? Is she okay, Ratch? Did that Con do something to her? Hey, Will -"

"Sam."

"So what's going on? I thought the bay _exploded_ or something. With you guys in it! Mikaela –"

Optimus took the necessary steps to head Sam off before he could get too wound up. "Sam, Ratchet informs us that Mikaela is unharmed. As you can see, the medical bay did _not _explode, but – Bumblebee, please quiet down; there's no need to sound that way –" Bee had switched over to the Funeral Dirge, optics overflowing with wiper-fluid as he wrung his servos helplessly – "I believe it would be for the best if you two took the night off. Bumblebee?"

Forgetting his act entirely, the scout straightened to attention and nodded sharply to Prime. "You c-c-can count on me!" His real voice still crackled from time to time, and certain consonants seemed to trip him up if he didn't catch himself. Ratchet had helped him recalibrate his vocal processors, spending countless evenings adjusting and tweaking different systems until he sounded more like the medic remembered. Bumblebee himself had certain ideas about how he was 'supposed' to sound, and strove to emulate the younger generation. Mikaela thought he sounded rather cute; Ironhide snorted and said he sounded like a glitch-head. You couldn't please everyone.

In the end it was determined that Barricade had performed an alpha-level scan on her; something that normally only Ratchet was wont to do, as part of his routine systems checks on the various humans that came through his medbay with some injury or another. It was an unofficial agreement between men and mechs – in order to learn first-hand human physiology, a few of the more daring soldiers would, before heading to their own medic's quarters, stop in to see Ratchet, for a quick scan and diagnosis. The alpha-level, or the setting most amenable to organic structures, was used to further the Cybertronians' knowledge of the human species. Ratchet and Bumblebee were perhaps the two most informed of the group, being the ones that were around the humans the most. Optimus picked things up quickly, however, as part of his effort to connect with the officials and liaisons he was constantly in contact with.

So Mikaela was officially released from Ratchet's somewhat overwhelming care, and Sam came along with her and Bumblebee. There was an anxious air around her boyfriend tonight, and Bumblebee's radio kept fluctuating, never quite settling on one station, a sure sign he was holding back a barrage of questions. She tried to settle back in the bucket seat, normally something that wasn't a problem for her, but her body was still tense, as if it knew it needed to do something, but she couldn't figure out what.

Finally she caught Sam _not_ looking at her for the fifth time, and huffed a little. "Sam, I'm not going to go berserk and start foaming at the mouth. Is there something you want to say?"

Apparently Sam had plenty he wanted to say, and both he and Bumblebee tripped over each other's words, talking over each other eagerly. Sam wondered why she had gone up to the containment unit in the first place; the yellow bot was curious as to why she was acting as if she was injured, when Ratchet had declared her fit and cleared for duty. She scowled at both of the questions, wondering why, after all they had gone through, Sam still sometimes acted as if he were afraid of his own shadow. So her tone was a bit churlish when she answered, "Gee, Sam, I just wondered if the big scary _piece of scrap_ would get up and dance for me, that's all. Bee, I'm _fine_. I'm just tired, and shook up, and wondering how the _hell_ it all happened in the first place. _Okay?"_

There was a startled, awkward silence that slowly pulled itself taut, dragging at her nerves. Sam was blinking at her, obviously hurt, and Bumblebee's radio had snapped itself off abruptly. She rolled her shoulders in an attempt to alleviate the tension, but all it did was pull at a crick in her neck. Beside her in the driver's seat, Sam swallowed, absently tapping fingers on Bee's steering wheel.

When he finally replied, it was with a seriousness that she rarely witnessed. "You scared me. You don't – you can't do that again. Alright? It's like, ever since we first met – well, officially, anyway – we've been in constant mortal peril. It's just one thing after another, and when things finally start to get back to something resembling normal, you decide to go all Dr. Frankenstein on me and resuscitate a freakin' _Decepticon._ It's like," and his voice shook with some unidentified emotion, as if this were something he was just now fully realizing, "it's like you _want_ to be in danger. You've been pulling away from everything, from me, from your friends and school and everything that's supposed to be normal and –"

"So what? I'm a freak now? Because I actually enjoy putting my talents to good use? Excuse the hell out of me, Sam Witwicky, for wanting to be helpful."

"That's just it, Mikaela! This thing, this project, is such bullshit! It's not useful, it's not remotely logical! Just because this guy apparently has some sort of intel on a dead Autobot does not make it okay to revive him and put a weapon in his hands! Extra asset, my –"

Anything else Sam might have said was cut off abruptly as Bumblebee's brakes squealed, jerking both teens forward with surprised yelps. Sam's arm shot out to cling to Mikaela, attempting to brace her from impact with the dashboard. Sputtering, the two looked at each other, wide-eyed and suddenly wary. "Bee, what the hell?"

"You are q-questioning a decision mmmade by your mate, a decision Optimus Prime sanc-ctioned. Do neither of their opinions matter to you, in the face of your fear? Won't you at least hear her out?"

Mikaela found herself blinking hard, feeling the pinprick of tears threatening to overwhelm her. She looked down at the hand that lingered on her arm, the one that Sam had caught when they had stopped so suddenly. When she stole a glance at the boy in question, she found him slumped forward, the fight gone from him. Just as quickly, she felt the anger drain from her, and she reached out to touch his hand tentatively.

He slowly raised his eyes up to hers, fear and something she didn't want to put a name to, not yet, lingering in his face. She let their fingers intertwine, squeezing him lightly. When he returned the gesture, she felt more of the frustration dissipate, and let herself relax back into the plush seat. She could feel Bumblebee thrumming softly around them, hearing with a finely tuned ear the otherworldly hum that his engine gave off. He was otherwise silent, and let the two young people have their moment.

Sam opened his mouth, paused, and attempted to start again. He looked vaguely frustrated, more with himself than anything, and she didn't interrupt, letting him find the words he was searching for. Finally he looked back up at her, determination setting his jaw. "You just need to know that you…you have people that care about you, and worry about you. _I _worry about you. I mean, I know, sure, you can take care of yourself, you're like, She-Ra, but even you can't run on fumes. You're not Cybertronian, and you don't have rechargeable batteries. You need a _break_, Mikaela. Hell, Ratchet thinks you need a break. Bee thinks you need a break, my _mom_ – "

"Ok, yeah, your point has been made. Remember our rule?"

"…Unless they've been hospitalized or are otherwise in mortal peril, my parents don't exist?"

"_Thank _you."

"Yeah, well, you know what I'm talking about. That Decepticon's not going anywhere. Let's go have some fun, go for a drive, go see a – a chick flick or something – what? I can't be sensitive to women's' needs? I have a built-in _radar _to pick up all those little non-verbal signals you girls give off. I have cracked the code, I have –"

She couldn't help it; she shut him up with a kiss. When they finally came up for air, he had a dopey, slightly disbelieving grin plastered across his face, as if after all these months he still couldn't believe that _she_ wanted to kiss_ him._ That he didn't take her for granted was just one more trait that endeared him to her. With a smirk, she brushed her mouth across his teasingly, and laughed when he attempted to follow her as she pulled back. She tapped his nose with a finger, and shoved him back into his seat. Around them, Bee shifted, and Sam patted the steering wheel. "You know, sometimes you're a genius. You know that?"

"_You just now figured that out?"_

Mikaela burst out laughing, and Sam made an exasperated sound. "Cocky S.O.B., too." With that, the Autobot's engine revved, a little proudly, the teens thought, and they pulled back out onto the highway towards home.

A minute later, Mikaela felt a hand over hers, and she looked down at their fingers tangled together on the console between them. Sam glanced at her from out the corner of his eye, and she gave him a bemused smile. It looked like he was planning something – which could end up going swimmingly, or horribly, horribly wrong, depending on how confident he was feeling. Judging by the hesitant smile curling up his mouth, she decided that this one might actually be worth hearing.

"You know…" and his fingers did a little dance across hers, "Mojo hasn't been to the beach in a while. He's probably due for a nice, long, romantic walk across the sand at sunset, a little moonlight dip in the ocean…"

"And does_ Mojo_ have his parent's permission, and say, a week off from his summer job?" Mikaela's voice was as dry as the desert outside.

"We-eell, I'm sure he could have arranged…something…already…as in I already asked Dad and Mr. Randall for both?" His smile grew as he spoke, and he looked rather smug. Mikaela had to bite back the sudden, overwhelming urge to throw her arms around him and laugh – or cry, or both. Blinking, startled by the unexpected surge of affection, she instead settled for a slow, pleased smile, and a tightening of her fingers around his.

Bee let out a cheerful cascade of notes, sounding his approval. _"Now _that's_ more like it!"_

Mikaela couldn't help but agree.

* * *

Her palm was itching again. She'd gotten so used to it over the past two weeks that now she only half-heartedly swiped it up and down her shorts, letting the friction soothe it. She didn't let it deter her from the mission at hand – packing for the beach.

Exactly _how_ Sam had talked his parents into the trip, she wasn't sure she wanted to know – but she was sure it involved some sort of mixture of blackmail, begging, and milking his Momma's Boy status for all it was worth. The fact that they weren't going with them was nothing short of a miracle. After Mission City, his parents – Judy, especially – had clung to him like burrs, setting curfews and demanding that he call them every hour that he was away from the house. Of course she couldn't blame them entirely; sometimes she envied Sam for his parents' excessive displays of devotion. But the fact that they were letting the two of them run off by themselves, Autobot guardian or no, baffled her. She was sincerely thankful she hadn't been part of that conversation.

The girl made a face at the two different bathing suits laid out in front of her. The gold strapless bikini, or the black and red floral monokini…? She _hmmed_ to herself, rubbing her thumb across her other hand's palm absently. And she couldn't forget her wetsuit, stashed in the back of her closet for those rare times she actually got to surf. Mostly her past trips to the beach had consisted of drunken keggers and heavy make-out sessions, with some fun in the shallows. The guys she hung out with didn't exactly appreciate being showed up by a girl who could hang ten better than they could.

_Both,_ she finally decided. Variety is most definitely the spice of life…and Sam hadn't seen either of these yet. She smirked, and went about finding space in her duffel bag for the outfits.

Later, all toiletries, wetsuit, and board wax ready to go, she headed downstairs to check on her Gramma. The older woman was digging around in one of the top cabinets, perched precariously on a stepstool, tiptoeing to see the contents of the shelf. Mikaela sighed to herself, and went to help the woman back down. "You _know _what the doctor said about strain on your back, right? Or is your memory going, too?"

Jodi Banes swatted her only grandchild with the colander she had found. "It's not like I was doing back flips to make pancakes," was the smart retort, and Mikaela pursed her lips.

"…Fair enough. Just don't strain it anymore than you have to. You're sure you'll be alright while I'm gone?"

The matriarch arched one finely-plucked brow at her. "Honey, I've been taking care of myself _long _before you happened. You're just a nice bonus." And Jodi patted her on the cheek, sweeping past her to the sink, managing to look regal with her long hair unbound and her green silk kimono open.

Mikaela shook her head, and grabbed up the box of uncooked spaghetti. "You always make me feel so appreciated." It didn't carry as much sarcasm as she would have liked, and her grandmother paused in her rinsing of the colander to look up at her. Faint silver eyebrows raised, and she studied Mikaela closely. Suddenly embarrassed, the girl ducked her head so that her hair fell in front of her face, not meeting her Gramma's eyes as she prepped the stove for the spaghetti.

Warm, callused fingers brushed her shoulder, and Mikaela peeked at the older woman through her curtain of hair. Her Gramma's smile was crooked, but filled with affection. "Darlin', you _are_. Never doubt that. This old lady would have been left to rot in some old folks' home if you hadn't stepped up when you did." It was a complete contradiction of her earlier claim, but both were true. Mikaela never doubted for a second that Jodi was in total control of her body and mind, yet her mother's side of the family, bless them, had different ideas.

They had refused to take their wayward niece in after Jake Banes' arrest and subsequent incarceration, but made sure that the State knew just how infirm and unfit his mother was, resulting in a two-year_ visit_ to a government-funded supported living center. It wasn't until Mikaela, after having been dumped into foster care and written off as juvie material, wrangled herself a job at a convenience store across town, pulled her average C plus up to a steady A minus, and joined three different after-school activities, that she dared petition the State for her grandmother to be released. Using a fatal combination of feminine wiles, logic, and connections made in the nursing home during her Gramma's stay, she convinced a judge to let her come home, and spring Mikaela from the misery that was her foster home at the same time.

No one would ever accuse Mikaela of being a pushover. Especially that judge, once she got through with him.

Shaking off the sudden melancholy, she tossed her hair back and patted her Gramma's hand. "I am rather brilliant, aren't I?" She said with a breezy laugh. The older woman pinched her arm in return, before letting her hand, and the subject, drop.

They spent the remainder of the afternoon in companionable silence, each knowing the other's dinner routine and working around each other easily. A call from Sam disrupted them at one point, reminding her to stock up on sunblock, to which her Gramma replied with a sardonic "He _does _know we live in the desert, yes?" Mikaela made a face at her over the mouthpiece and shooed her away.

The pasta was excellent, as always. Mikaela managed to wolf down two full helpings before she declared herself stuffed, while Jodi eyed the empty plate in front of her. "Sure you couldn't use a bit more? I think I can still see your ribs." Mikaela responded with a wadded up napkin. It landed square on her grandmother's nose.

* * *

"You're not going to test the neural command relays without me, are you? Because if I come back and find out you've taught him to juggle geese or something else equally ridiculous, I'm going to have to set your optical input system to pick up nothing but late-night infomercials."

"Truly, you are a diabolical creature," came the dry response as he ushered her out of the medbay. "I'll be sure to scrap that particular plan – just as soon as you're out of my sight. Now get out."

"I'm _trying_ to, Ratchet, but – "

"Mikaela, if I hear one more excuse to stay and worry over that disgusting excuse for a science project, I'm going to disable my audio receptors and pretend you're not here. That way, it won't be my fault if I step on you."

"But we're _so close_, if the neural transmitter circuit's complete, he could be responding to basic script commands _tomorrow_ – "

The rest of that sentence was spoken to a closed set of doors. From behind them, she could just make out Ratchet setting the system to no admittance.

She let out a breath between her teeth, and made a point to stomp as she left the medical wing. Outside, Sam and Bumblebee eyed her warily. "Soooo…we good then?" Sam ventured to ask.

She shook her hair out her eyes and made a special effort to smile at him, letting go of her frustration as she did so. Ratchet was right, as usual. Her project would still be there when she got back; it wasn't like he was going to get up and walk away. Absently she rubbed her palm, letting the familiar action calm her. "We're good. Did _you _remember all your bags?" She'd asked this when they'd first picked her up, too. With Sam, you couldn't be too careful.

"Yes, your Grace, I am ninety-nine point eight percent sure I've got everything this time."

She shook her head and leaned up to get a kiss. Beside her, she heard Bumblebee shift into alt mode, radio flicking on as he did so. "California Girls" drifted through his open windows. With a groan, Sam pulled back and went around to the driver's side, smacking the hood. "Bee, I think it's time we had a serious man-to-mech talk about your taste in music."

* * *

They were out of the city limits in two minutes flat, the heat waves rising from the asphalt washing over them and into Bee's interior. The hot wind felt good against Mikaela's face, and she leaned into her door, letting her head rest against the frame and watching the desert whip by. Beside her, Sam and Bee were in an intense debate involving the Beatles and anything created before 1995. The whole time, Sam never let go of her hand, and every so often, she would catch him glancing over at her. Finally she turned so that she could watch him argue.

He was never still. This was perhaps the first thing she'd noticed about him, when she had actually stopped to notice him at all. His hands were always busy, his face mobile and never able to hide anything. Everything, from his quirking eyebrows to his tapping toes, was forever in motion. It was as if the moment he was in wasn't moving fast enough for him. It was like him, she knew, to always want that next step, to run straight at whatever was coming. He was a bundle of nerves and giddiness and _feeling_, and sometimes it left her a little exhausted just to be around him. As for herself, she was content where she was, never asking for anything else, never wanting what she couldn't see. But somehow he'd grabbed hold of her, and dragged her headlong into the deep end, where she found herself struggling to keep her head above water, afraid of what lay beneath the surface.

Bumblebee was the perfect medium. Funny how the two of them, with such distinctly separate outlooks and personalities, got on with him so well. Sometimes she wondered what they'd be like if he weren't there to buffer them, to anchor them to each other. Would they still be tied together, or would they have just worn down the connection that had sparked between them with their rampant differences?

Mikaela wondered. She hoped she'd never have to find out.

Sam snuck another glance at her and found her watching, and he threw her an unrepentant grin. She pursed her lips at his expression, and his smile grew. "What, I can't ogle my own girlfriend?"

As ever, she couldn't stop herself from smiling back. "Baby, save your eyes for the beach. You haven't seen anything yet."

* * *

A six hour drive felt like two, when they were able to entertain themselves without having to worry about who was driving. Sam usually remembered to keep one hand on the wheel, to keep up appearances should they pass anyone, but they were mostly left to themselves.

It was mid afternoon, and both of them were getting hungry. They'd worked their way through the small cooler full of junk food in Bee's back seat, but cold Twinkies and Milk Duds only go so far. Fortunately, their journey was coming to an end. Bee whistled to get their attention, and they tore their eyes away from each other to see where they were.

A long driveway wound in front of them, and at the top of a small, steep hill rose a house. It was built low and sprawling, in the style of the old ranch houses. Beyond it, they could hear the low roar of the ocean as it careened against the wall of the cliffs the home was situated on. It was a barren, wild looking place, strangely beautiful in its simplicity.

Bumblebee trilled softly in appreciation as he rolled to a stop. Mikaela silently agreed with him as she unfolded herself out of her seat, stretching out the kinks in her back. _This_ was what she had needed; Sam had been right, after all. No cities, no traffic, no bright lights to blind and distract her. Out here, there was space to breathe - and with their own private beach, no less. But hey, San Francisco was just half an hour away, if Bee was driving. Plenty of room, plenty of water, and plenty of therapy shopping. It made Mikaela's toes curl to think about it.

Sam grunted and groaned as he peeled himself out of his chair, clinging to Bee's door as he found his feet. Bumblebee laughed and wriggled his appendage, making Sam sway dangerously. "Okay, out-of-shape human needs a little support here, do you mind?" Apparently Bee didn't, because he kept right on doing it. Mikaela, used to their fraternal bickering, ignored the two and headed up the steep but short flight of stairs up to the porch of the house. They had called earlier, and she knew the person who owned the property was going to be there. Before she reached the screen door, however, it swung open.

The woman standing there was tall, made more so by the well-worn but polished military boots, fastidiously laced, the pants tucked into them. The plain white tee was spotless, tucked in neatly as well. She could just make out the silver chain the woman never took off, hidden beneath her top. The boots crossed themselves, the woman leaning smartly against the doorjamb with her arms folded. "Well? You didn't come with just the clothes on your back, did you?" Even her accent was neat and tidy, giving away her British upbringing. She jerked her chin out towards Sam and Bumblebee, who were still going at it. "Go and let's get the ninety-million trunks you've got crammed into the boot, and tell those boys to stop dithering and come and give their host a proper welcome."

Mikaela couldn't resist that tone of voice; she saluted smartly, rapping out a "Ma'am, yes Ma'am!" And she made a face at her before leaning in to give her a one-armed hug. The woman grunted, returning the gesture somewhat stiffly. "Damn straight. Now quit being such a nancy and let's go bring your things in." And she smoothed one hand over her already immaculately tied-back hair absently, shaking off her momentary awkwardness. The woman never had been comfortable with physical shows of affection.

"Captain!" Sam waved enthusiastically from behind Bumblebee's open trunk. He already had his duffel bag in one hand, and he reached back in to haul out Mikaela's more formal luggage case. As he struggled with it, giving out the appropriate manly grunts and swears, the Captain came around and pulled it the rest of the way out one-handed, barely straining herself. Sam scowled at her. The Captain just rolled her eyes and turned to nod to Bumblebee, still idling in alt mode. "Autobot Bumblebee, an honor to see you again."

The Autobot let out an impatient sputter and spat the rest of the bags out at Sam, who swore extensively and ducked. Bumblebee wasted no time in transforming into his root mode, rising to his pedes to greet her properly. "Cashhh-aptain Starling, it is an honor to be-ee here," his real voice warbled as he responded in kind. She looked steadily back at him, not even blinking as he gave her a salute, this one far more formal than Mikaela's. Captain Starling touched her fingers to her forehead in a brief but no less serious gesture. Looking back down, she nodded to the teens, and scooped up a couple more pieces of luggage. "Come on, kiddies, get your gear and follow me."

She spoke to Bumblebee as they made their way back up the driveway. "The garage is around back, in the cliffs. We'll meet you there shortly, after I've gotten these two settled in." Bee hummed happily, waving them off, and cut through the scrub that covered the desert floor. As he disappeared around the hill, Mikaela saw that her surfboard was still strapped to his back, and bit back a grin. Trust him to know what was _really_ important.

Sam spoke up. "Captain? Listen, thanks for putting us up –"

"More like putting up _with_ – "

"That too. Thanks for putting up with us uneducated, useless, vacationing civilians and letting us crash at your awesome beachside pad."

Starling just shook her head, the short ponytail at the crown of her skull flicking with the motion. She lead the way inside the cool, quiet house, guiding them through a spacious kitchen filled with stainless steel appliances and smooth, dark counter tops. An open doorway was tucked into a far corner of the kitchen, which led to a wide, shallow set of stairs. They started the trek up, the Captain still carrying the pieces of luggage as if they weighed no more than pillows. "Mikaela, we've discussed this. You _must _find a muzzle for that boy. I won't listen to his prattle the entire time he's here."

"I've got it covered, Captain. I will keep his mouth very occupied while we're here. You won't hear a peep out of him."

"Remind me to always knock, then."

"Mik-_ae_-la!"

"_Sam_."

"I knew I should have made the two of you stay out in the garage. And how many times must I remind you to call me Alexis?"

* * *

Sorry, not too much happening in this chapter; it's important, though, setting up several plot arcs that will come into play later. Just remember that.

Any complaints, about the characters, the writing/grammar/etc, any errors you may have spotted…feel free to tell me. I enjoy concrit immensely.


	4. The Formula for Success

Getter closer now. Thanks to everyone for your reviews, faves/watches, and not to mention patience! I am incredibly grateful.

And now, for your entertainment: fluffy filler.

The quote is from Arthur Rubinstein; the song used is © Matt Nathanson.

**Secondhand Sparks**

**Chapter Three: The Formula For Success**

_"There is no formula for success except perhaps an unconditional acceptance of life and what it brings."_

The Captain remained somewhat elusive during their stay, preferring the solitude of her study over the three boisterous youngsters. She claimed it was better for her back if she kept hard labor to a minimum, despite her blatant display of health the day of their arrival. A cracked spine was nothing to sneer at, Mikaela knew, but the truth was that Alexis just wasn't the social type. This didn't stop Sam from pestering her relentlessly, attempting to drag her outside to work on sand sculptures and teach them poker. She put up with it, to an extent, but she had grown up with three older brothers and knew how to deal with irritating man-children.

For her part, Mikaela was content to see her at meals and in passing, letting the woman have her space. Alexis would venture out every so often, to catch a part of whatever show they happened to be watching, or to tell them to move it outside. Despite her obvious fascination with Bumblebee, whom she couldn't seem to take her eyes off of, she conversed with him rarely, only interacting with him if he happened to be around Mikaela and Sam. Mikaela didn't let it bother her much; the woman wasn't like most adults she came into contact with, and when she was around, she treated them more like regular housemates than the visiting guests they were.

Which meant chores, of course. She woke up Mikaela about six one morning so she could take out last night's trash, and she had Sam in the kitchen constantly, claiming that a man needed to know how to put away his own dishes. When she discovered that Mikaela never folded her clothes, just threw them in the closet, she sat the girl down and made her go through every piece of clothing she had brought with her.

She also made sure that they had their beds neatly made and tucked in just so every morning. Sam, having dealt with his mother his entire life, resigned himself to the Captain's quirks early on; Mikaela had looked at the list of tasks that was posted on the wall opposite the stairwell, and started laughing. She'd done so right up until Alexis took them by the elbows and escorted them back upstairs, to the woman's bedroom. She took out a British crown, and bounced it off her immaculately dressed bed. It shot straight back into her hand where it hovered above the sheets, waiting for the coin.

"I expect_ quality_ work, if not quantity. The world doesn't stop turning simply because you are on vacation. The toast will still burn, and you _will_ still trip and fall down the stairs if you leave your pile of unwashed clothes by them."

Sam took in the somewhat sour expression she wore, and snickered. "Had personal experience with that, huh?"

The Captain sniffed. "Well, I wasn't always perfect."

* * *

So the days went. Despite the initial shock of having to work through their vacation, Mikaela eased into the routine quickly. Alexis was right, she realized. They weren't so much chores as clean living. And it was a nice change, having her things organized and laid out to where she could actually find them.

She was sitting up on her bed, an old towel laid beneath her, painting her toenails. Bumblebee watched from the window, being just barely tall enough to see into the second-story bedroom. The house was more squat than recent models, and sat lower to the ground. He was exclaiming over the immaculate strokes she made as she lacquered up her nails with Fire Engine Red, wishing he could work with something so tiny. She promised that when it came time to redo them, she'd let him have a go at it, which made him squeak happily.

When she was finished, she sat the bottle in her nightstand and went to settle herself down on the windowsill, letting Bumblebee blow air from his vents to help them dry faster. She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply; engine grease, nail polish and warm metal bled together, creating an almost surreal atmosphere. She peeked through her lashes at Bumblebee, who seemed perfectly content to be sitting there, helping her dry her nails. His own optics were shuttered, mirroring her expression, and he had a forearm propped up against the side of the house, leaning into it lazily.

Something about his posture made her frown; it was just so casual and_ human_. Was this something universal, or did they pick up body language the same way as English, through the Internet? She'd seen Ratchet settle his hands on his hips countless times as he was berating someone, and Optimus had a penchant for rubbing his face when he was frustrated. It made it easier to see them behaving so normally – so like them. Perhaps they expressed things differently on Cybertron, but whatever the effect, she felt it came from the same place – they had emotions and thoughts, just like any sentient being.

Would Barricade be the same, or would he simply be an empty shell, waiting for someone to give him an order, like any other machine? It was something that troubled her, more than she cared to admit. Ratchet was being curiously tight-lipped about the whole thing, which didn't help.

Hell. She was supposed to be on _vacation _from work, not dwelling on it. With a huff, she pulled herself into an upright position and stretched, shaking away her unsettling thoughts. Beside her, Bumblebee chirped and righted himself as well. They inspected her nails, Mikaela critically, the bot more curiously. She'd slap an overcoat on later, she decided, and wouldn't worry about it in the meantime.

A call from Sam turned Bumblebee's attention from her, and he disappeared from her line of sight, headed towards the beach. Eventually he came back to her, and gestured to her. "Wwwant a ride, pretty lady?" She laughed, and scooped her backpack up from its corner. Delicately she stepped into his waiting hands, both of them taking care to avoid her still sticky nails.

There was a beach towel and umbrella waiting for her, and Bumblebee let her get comfortable before heading over to Sam, who sat crouched a ways down the spit of sand. Surrounding him were buckets and tins of varying sizes, as well as trowels and shovels all lined up neatly. Her brows rose at the two of them, and Sam gestured to her. She held up a foot and wriggled her toes at him in response. As she laid back, sunglasses perched on her nose, she heard Bumblebee informing Sam that she probably wouldn't be happy if she had to redo her nails because she got sand on them. Smiling to herself – her boys were so thoughtful – she closed her eyes, and let the heat and their voices lull her into sleep.

* * *

_There's a word for this,_ Mikaela thought drowsily as she woke up. She leafed through her mental dictionary, discarding the usual _awesome _and _sweet _for something a little more…profound. Absently she rubbed at her palm as she laboriously worked her way through years of memorized English vocabulary sets.

The sun soared above her, reflecting off the water and prying beneath her closed eyelids. A little ways down, she could hear sand shifting and squealing as Bumblebee and Sam built what was probably the world's first alien-constructed sand castle…wait. She frowned to herself, letting her head loll towards the noise. There was something wrong with that thought.

_Pyramids_, her groggy mind whispered. Right, those. She made a mental note to ask Bee if they'd had anything to do with that. Maybe Miles was right after all. Her train of thought drifted after that, letting it take her deeper into a somnambular state. She forgot what she had been doing a few seconds ago, before alien artifacts interrupted her thought process. A yawn crept up on her, making her jaw crack. She stretched languorously, and then made herself roll over till she could flop onto her belly, turning her head so she could watch the two friends work. At first she blinked, trying to get the sunspots out of her eyes, not really believing what she saw. With a grunt, she pulled herself upright, staring.

Sam was balanced on Bumblebee's shoulders, his arms wrapped around a huge metal tub that he struggled to pull off of a sandy turret. One of Bee's hands steadied Sam, wrapping around his torso even as his other one finished sculpting out a shallow window in another tower. The tallest rampart soared high above the Autobot's doorwings, casting the two in shadow as they labored away in the summer heat. Most of the other towers look finished, complete with delicate spires, railed balconies and great Primus above, it looked like there was a courtyard somewhere in there, lost in the maze of doorways, stairwells and sandy, sculpted shrubbery. No moat, but they were probably saving that for last.

Just how long _had_ she been asleep, anyway?

Bumblebee saw her before Sam, and nearly unseated him, he waved so exuberantly. Sam clung precariously to the tub that still sat upon the tower, teetering dangerously before Bee caught him again. Mikaela let out a disbelieving laugh, finally hauling herself to her feet, stretching out her legs and brushing the sand off her limbs. She ambled towards them, lacing her hands behind her head, taking in the sight. She might actually be able to fit into those doorways, if she was on her hands and knees. Sam finally spotted her, and waved just as enthusiastically, grinning his little-boy grin and not looking a bit embarrassed.

Mikaela came to a halt just in front of the main entrance, moving to put her hands on her hips and eying them speculatively through her shades. "Sam Witwicky, you've got a giant metal man from outer space for a best friend, and out of the million and two things you could be doing, you've got him doing _arts and crafts_?"

"Not entirely, no. We just wanted to see how high we could get it at first…it's not my fault Bee's got an artistic streak."

Her shoulders shook with laughter. "Dignity, thy name is not Sam. But…this_ is_ pretty damn awesome."

Bumblebee whistled in agreement.

She pursed her lips. "So…can I go in yet?"

The Autobot shook his head, making Sam squeak and cling to him. "Nnn-not yet, please. It still nnneeds to dry."

Mikaela pretended to pout for a minute, before turning on her heel and marching back to her little oasis. She ransacked her backpack, and when she found what she was looking for, she made her way back towards them, object in hand. She held it up. "For posterity. And history. You haven't by any chance done this before, have you, Bumblebee?"

The mech in question cocked his head, optics blinking artlessly. Sam looked confused. With a roll of her eyes, Mikaela held up her find, deciding she didn't really need to know. When he saw what she was doing, Sam waggled his finger at her. "You know what the Major said! What Optimus said! No photos. Too much digital proof of the Cybertronians' existence floating around, waiting to be hacked –"

That's why I brought Gramma's Polaroid." She shook it at him.

Sam paused, and looked at Bee. Bee looked back at Sam. Both shrugged. "For posterity."

She aimed and fired.

She finally had a word she could use, one she didn't find use for too often. _Perfect._

* * *

Out here, you could see for miles into the atmosphere, past the Earth's lights and into the heart of the Milky Way. The stars were an endless vaulted ceiling, spreading across the sky and into the ocean. The night air felt like silk and warm fingers brushing her cheek as she meandered down the steps that led from the back of the house to the long stretch of beach. The boys were out here somewhere, she knew; she'd seen Sam drift off after he'd cleaned up dinner, in the direction of the garage and Bumblebee. As she hit the sand, she could just barely hear the lull of two voices above the quiet roar of the waves, and headed towards them.

There were rocky outcrops that jutted out from the wall of the cliffs, trailing off into the waves to create tidal pools and other little fascinating worlds that stood apart from the rest of the sea. She pulled herself over a small hill, and there they were – or at least Bumblebee was; she could hear Sam's voice, but he was still hidden from sight. A little ways past the yellow bot stood their finished palace, looking grand and a little unearthly in the starlight. It should be dry by now, she thought to herself with a small smile. Tomorrow she'd make them give her the grand tour.

Their voices drifted towards her on the breeze. "So you've seriously never had a real vacation before? Dude, we need to have a talk with the boss bot. You guys need some downtime every once in a while, you know? Not just _not fighting_, but…doing other activities that have nothing to do with fighting."

"Wwwe do have recreational periods, Sam. On the Ark, we even had…what you would call a rec room. There were consoles for games of-of strategy and outcome estimationnn, tables and chairs _our size_," and she could _feel _the wistful expression he wore at this, "refreshment – if-f-f you recall the two mechs of which I've spoken before, the Twins – Sideswipe had some of the meanest high g-rrr-rade you'll ever have the misfortune to taste, if you had the right connections."

"You mean _moonshine_?" Sam sounded delighted at the idea. "You guys made your own illegal alcohol?" Bumblebee _whrrred _in affirmation, his eyes bright. "Dude, I cannot wait to meet those two."

Bee's expression changed just a little, enough for Mikaela to know that something was amiss. He turned away from what was assumedly Sam on the other side of him, which caused his optic to meet Mikaela's. His own widened, and his face lit up again in a more familiar fashion. "Mickey!" He crowed. She smiled back at him, and made the short trek down the rocks to meet them. He didn't rise, but extended one giant hand towards her, and she took a finger, letting him guide her over to Sam. Her boyfriend beamed at her, curly hair mussed and cheeks glowing, whether from his own exuberance, or from the earlier sun, she couldn't tell.

She sat herself down in front of Sam, facing the two of them. Letting her weight settle on her hands behind her, she craned her neck up to get a better look at Bumblebee. You couldn't tell that something had been bothering him just a few seconds ago, but she remembered. "So…vacay's not really a Cybertronian thing, huh?"

Again that expression crossed his face, as if he were recalling something fondly and with pain all at once. "You know, I asked Jazz that once. He would know more than I would about Cybertronian culture, so he was the mech to go to if you wanted to find out anything involving the arts and societal mores of our species.

I am too new to remember the old Cybertron…the Golden Age." And here his voice caught, as if he were hanging onto those words and holding them aloft in reverence. Something inside Mikaela shivered, and she pulled her arms in to rub at the goosebumps that rose there. In front of her, Sam eyes were riveted to Bumblebee's face, a bemused expression puckering his brows. She wondered if they had ever talked about this before, if Sam had ever bothered asking. Somehow she doubted it, judging from the look his face held. She shook her head mentally. _Boys._

Finally Bumblebee continued, his voice smoothing out the best it could. "Did you know, there used to be ranks of nobility on Cybertron? Much like yours, here. There were grand palaces, and dancing, and fêtes every night…Jazz always said it was just a thousand of the most worthless bots flitting around like they had something under their olfactory sensors." Despite the jibe, there was a certain wistful note to it that she couldn't ignore.

"There's a few that are still online…at least as far as I've heard. Mirage was with us for a while, before Jazz found a mission for him. He's been gone a long…a long time. Hound went with him, of course. Those two are –what's that phrase-joined at the knee?" His tone was musing, as if he were only thinking out loud now. "Hound was a former member of the Guard, like Jazz. They're good trackers, the both of them; though I think Hound enjoys the hunt a little more. Jazz was always a look-you-in-the-optics-and-smile-while-he's-lying type of mech. A good one, though. You'll never meet a bot more dedicated to Prime. Except maybe Ironhide or Ratchet. Now,_ those _two…"

It took Mikaela a minute to put her finger on what was different. Then it hit her: he hadn't stuttered. Not once.

Much later, she found herself with her arms around her legs, a cheek pressed to her knee as she took in the lively cadence of Bumblebee's voice. He was explaining exactly _why _Sideswipe and Sunstreaker avoided the medbay at all costs. She thought that maybe Sideswipe and Sam would get on famously, if they were still alive.

No one knew what had happened to those two, it seemed. Like many other soldiers in this war, they had taken up their own mission. Last anyone heard, Sideswipe had been headed to a seldom-traveled part of the 'verse, looking into rumors of a Decepticon camp. They hadn't known if Sunstreaker had been with him, though Bumblebee was certain he was – they were twins, he said, something rare and special. One spark, housed in two different bodies. Where one went, the other would, too.

It was fascinating, learning about Bumblebee's comrades. He spoke of them as if he'd only seen them yesterday, which, knowing the huge difference in their biological clocks, might make it feel that way to him. But it might also just be Bumblebee himself: Mikaela could hear it in his voice, the hope and the confidence in his friends, that they were still alive somewhere out there, trying to find their way home. He was just that kind of mech, to believe in such things; the war had never been able to strip him of that.

Mikaela was grateful for it. It made her wish he had been able to live in the time he talked of so reverently – an age of peace and love, prosperity and pursuit of knowledge. A chill came over her then, a distant thought trying to break through, but she disregarded it. Now was not the time to be getting technical. She turned her attention back to her best friends.

Sam had found a comfortable spot up against Bumblebee's thigh, leaning into the warm, living metal. His lids were at half-mast, but Mikaela could still make out the ghost of a smile at the corner of his mouth. He was listening intently, she knew. The whole time Bumblebee had been talking, Sam had inched steadily closer to his friend, until he found his current place beside him. She could see Bumblebee's hand at Sam's back, tapping a steady, soft rhythm against his spine. She couldn't help but smile at the gesture. The bot probably didn't even realize he was doing it; it was an absentminded, comforting motion, whether for himself or for his friend she couldn't tell.

Finally she found that she had to stretch or suffer a sore back in the morning. She hauled herself up, dusting away the grit that had accumulated on her legs and shorts. Both Sam and Bumblebee watched her as she proceeded to unkink herself, pushing at the small of her back and arching to break the pressure that had accumulated there. When she turned back, Sam was still in his spot by his friend, looking sleepy and thoughtful. She ran a careless hand over her ponytail, tugging at the end of it pensively. She looked up at Bee, but he was silent, his gaze on the distant, star-studded horizon. She thought for a moment, considering his expression. Then, with a slow smile, she offered him her hand. "Hey."

He glanced down at her hand, blinking at the appendage. She waggled her fingers at him. "Come here."

Carefully he dislodged Sam from his leg, righting the boy into a sitting position. Sam looked between the two of them, scrubbing at his face. "How about offering _me_ a hand up? I think my legs have gone to sleep."

She let her smile slide over to him, and he leaned back against the rocks, eying her, an answering smile working its way across his sleepy expression. "What are you up to, babe?"

This time she ignored him, and gestured to Bee again. He finally responded, his optics bemused. Delicately, he took her hand in his, his own giant digits dwarfing hers. Mikaela tugged, feeling him follow her. Dust drifted off his frame as he let her take the lead, the tiny particles winking in the soft silver light. Despite the sand and salt and numerous other earthy things that surrounded them, his armor still shone proudly, the moon and stars casting him in brilliant light and velvet shadow. She led him down to the shoreline, past their palace made of crystals and starlight, and raised their arms until she could walk beneath his, slowly turning until she had made a full revolution.

She saw understanding dawn on his face, until his optics shone bright as the moon. He glanced back over his shoulder at the castle, then back down at her. She beamed back up at him, leading him further out until she felt the waves lapping at her bare feet. Still clinging to his hand, she tugged the hem of her tank top and sank into a curtsy, stumbling a little in the wet, crumbling sand. Laughing, she righted herself and pulled at him. "Now you."

"Now what?"

"Bow and ask me to dance, mister."

"Ahh." He didn't hesitate, and swept into an exaggerated bow over her hand, warm forehead brushing against the back of it. "Beautiful lady, would you do me the great honor of dancing with me tonight?"

She would, and did.

She had to show him where to put his hands, and his feet, but once they got themselves sorted out, he followed her as if he'd been doing it his whole life. After a while they switched, Mikaela letting him take the lead. He swept her across the glittering sand, moving her into patterns she wasn't familiar with, but felt natural all the same. Despite the rather distinct difference in their sizes, they made it work; setting a rhythm that seemed to move with the waves at their feet. Soon she became aware of a faint buzzing over the rush of the water, which she realized was Bumblebee's radio. He was surfing through sound bytes, and after another moment he found one that satisfied him.

"_I miss the sound of your voice;  
and I miss the rush of your skin;  
and I miss the still of the silence  
as you breathe out and I breathe in – "_

Mikaela let her eyes fall closed. He spun her a little bit faster, and she clung to him tighter. When she opened them up again, the moon seemed brighter, the stars not so far away. As she was passed back through the waves, the ocean at her back, she caught Sam's eyes.

He wasn't smiling anymore, but his look spoke louder than anything he could have ever said. That feeling, that nameless thing that crept up on her sometimes unawares when she was with him, stared back at her from behind his eyes. She matched him stare for stare, letting him look his fill. She wouldn't say it if he wouldn't, but it was there, in everything but words. Even after she and Bumblebee completed their revolution, her back once more to the cliffs, the moment stayed with her.

"_So come on get higher,  
loosen my lips;  
faith and desire  
And the swing of your hips –"_

Then Bumblebee was pulling her into one last spin, drawing the dance to a close – so she thought. Then she saw that Sam had climbed to his feet at last, and Bee was holding her hand out for him to take. He stepped in seamlessly, his bearing for once lacking its usual teenage ungainliness. She spun once more, into the circle of his arms, and let him take the lead. His eyes were as bright as Bumblebee's, a strange, soft smile unfurling across his face. His fingers interlaced with hers, locking their hands behind her back, keeping her flush against him. Bee stepped back, taking Sam's place by the cliff. When she glanced back at him, she found his face raised to the stars, optics searching the night sky. The music never stopped.

Then Sam stole her attention once more as he moved them further into the surf. The dance changed, evolving into something slower and deeper. She felt his breath across her face, let his warmth surround her. She didn't dare close her eyes.

"_If I could walk on water,  
if I could tell you what's next;  
make you believe,  
make you forget –"_

It was right there, those three words, hanging in the small space between them. She could taste them on her tongue, like something too sweet that made her mouth water. But he didn't say anything, so neither did she. Instead he squeezed her hands, closing the distance between them to press their foreheads together. Something in her chest tightened, the words threatening to smother her. Still she kept her eyes open, watching him watching her. Her lips parted.

"_Hold on, hold on, hold on…"_

She exhaled, and he kissed her, silencing anything she may have said.

"_Come on, get higher -  
Come on and get higher -  
Because everything works, love;  
because everything works in your arms."_

* * *

"Sam, has Bumblebee ever told you any of that before?"

There were only two days left now, and it was mid-morning. Mikaela had been up since dawn, as usual, unable to sleep more than a few hours at a time. They were in the den, sprawled together on the couch. Sam had his head on one armrest, legs up and tucked into Mikaela's side. She took up the other armrest, mirroring him. He was gulping down an overflowing ham sandwich, a feat she watched with some trepidation. If any of that monstrosity got onto the leather, Alexis would have both their heads. Then she'd make them do laps. She'd done it before, after Sam got melted chocolate chips all over his sheets.

That woman really didn't fool around when it came to cleanliness.

Sam studied his sandwich for a moment, as if it would give him the answer he was searching for. Mikaela waited patiently, letting him and his food be. After a bit, he licked a smear of mustard of the side of his thumb, and spoke. "Yeah…sort of. I asked him about something once, but…I don't know."

"Don't know what? What did you ask him?"

"I asked him about girl Cybertronians. Like, if there were any."

She scowled thoughtfully, the analytical part of her mind taking control and examining the idea from several different angles. "_Could _they be female? I mean, maybe there's a different model of protoform that is supposed to be a counterpart to the models we're familiar with…or something."

Sam didn't respond. When she looked at him, he was staring once more into his sandwich, a strange look on his face. She nudged him with her foot. "Forty-two."

"Eh?"

"The answer you're looking for. If that sandwich could talk, it would tell you it's forty-two."

He laughed despite himself, his expression clearing a little. "No, it's just…what he told me. About them."

Mikaela straightened immediately, watching him. "So they do exist? I've never actually brought it up with Ratchet, you know. I figured if it were important, he'd tell me. So what did Bee say?"

Sam sat up finally, swinging his legs down to the floor. With a sigh, he set his limp sandwich on the coffee table, and braced his elbows on his knees. As he sat there in silence, Mikaela's stomach slowly knotted. Maybe she didn't want to know.

"They're _gone_, Mikaela. Completely, totally wiped out of existence."

"W_hat?_ How is that possible? What in God's name could possibly -_"_

And then she snapped her jaw shut, and closed her eyes. She already knew.

"Megatron. It was Megatron. Mikaela, he _slaughtered_ them. He – he rounded them up like _cattle _- " he had to stop and swallow past the lump in his throat, then continued. "And you know why? You know what he said, the excuse he gave?"

She had a sinking feeling she did.

"'They're weak, useless creatures that do nothing to further the progress of our species. They're worthless and distracting, and I will not have them as soldiers. I will not have them at all.' "

Her eyes burned, and angrily she palmed the tears away. Sam's face was drawn, shadows creasing his normally cheerful countenance. "Bumblebee was there. He saw it happen. He saw his own friends abused, tortured and murdered right in front of him, and he couldn't do a damn thing about it. None of them could."

With every new story she heard, with every atrocity that was added to the list, she hated that monster _that_ much more. Despite her fears, despite the pain that came with knowing what Sam had done to survive, she was still glad he had done it. If it meant that the universe was just a little bit safer because of it, then so be it. She wished Megatron death a thousand times over, each one more excruciating and prolonged than the last.

Sam read her expression easily, and his face softened. "Hey. Stop it. No brooding on our vacation, remember? That's the law, and if I have to enforce it, I will." And he leaned into kiss her, distracting her for a time.

But she still remembered the look on Bumblebee's face as he searched the heavens for someone who would never return to him. It made her heart ache.

* * *

Two hours later Alexis found them back out on the beach, where Mikaela was being thoroughly distracted by a tour of the sand castle. The Captain came to an abrupt halt when the palace came into view, and her brows shot up. Sam ambled over to her, and swept his arm out in a grand gesture. "Welcome, welcome! Are you here for the grand tour?" And before she could protest, he'd linked their arms and began escorting her rather forcefully to the entrance. She balked, digging in her heels. Sam tugged in vain at her, but she crossed her arms, eyeballing the sand castle inches from her nose.

"That doesn't look very stable."

"Hey! This project was conducted by none other than our very own, multi-talented, multi-gadgeted Bumblebee! He'll tell you it's safe, won't you, Bee? Go on, tell her."

Bumblebee whistled enthusiastically from his position on the far side of the castle. Alexis rolled her eyes, and made to duck beneath the entrance. Sam stopped her before she could disappear, however. "There_ is_ a ten-dollar entrance fee. Did I forget to mention that?"

Alexis made a noise back in her throat. "Sam. I own this beach."

"So?"

"So, this is my property. This is my ruddy sand, so that makes _this _my castle by default."

"Ok, how about a construction fee?"

Alexis paused, and narrowed her eyes at the boy. Then she turned to Bumblebee, who was watching them with an air of bemusement. "Don't tell me _you're_ hard up for cash." The Autobot held his hands out in a defensive gesture, chirping.

"Bloody…why I even bother asking…" They heard her mutter as she ducked into the castle.

A while later her shout came from somewhere in the middle of it all. "Oi! The Major called just a bit ago; said he had some news. You lot interested?"

Mikaela, who had come out the other side just minutes before, sat up. "What kind of news? Did they finally fire Simmons?"

The Captain gave a snort. "Nothing that fantastic. Said they'd finally gotten the go-ahead to start relocating, is all."

Bumblebee gave a piercing whistle, and everyone winced. Making a face at his friend, Sam looked to Mikaela, and they nodded at each other. Scrambling, they dove to locate the Captain and pull her out of the structure, to talk to her face-to-face.

She smirked when she saw their expressions. "Thought that might peak your interest."

Even as she questioned the Captain, Mikaela noticed Bumblebee go still, and look off into the distance. He was most likely contacting the others. Why hadn't they informed him first? But Alexis was talking, so she turned her attention back to her.

"They've finally got their hands on a piece of land off the coast, not too far from here, actually. Natives call it Diego Garcia, but the island itself isn't occupied. From the sound of things, your government had to cut a few deals, make a few promises to the President of Mexico to get it. There's fresh water, and they're already drawing up shipping plans for food and other supplies for the troops."

Mikaela's head spun with the implications. She barged past Sam's inquiries, asking the question that plagued her. "Did he mention Ratchet's plans? What's he going to do with Barricade?"

Both Sam and Alexis paused to look at her. The pilot's tone was indecipherable as she replied. "The Major wanted the two of you to know…that Optimus Prime says to stay in school. There's no need to uproot yourselves on their behalf."

The girl's heart leapt to her throat, then plummeted just as abruptly down to her toes. "No _way_."

"He says you've assisted as much as you're able –"

"But I'm not _done_!"

"Mikaela." This was Sam. She turned to him, her face pinched in desperation. "Hey. Hey, look. Ratchet's not going to cut you out of the project just like that. Maybe you could, I dunno, use Skype or something, work through video. Lots of –"

"Sam. I'm a mechanic. I have to use my _hands_, I need to do it _myself_."

"I get that, but, you know, doctors and stuff do this sort of thing all the time; they just tell someone else what to do and that person does it."

Mikaela let loose a cry of frustration, which made Bumblebee finally drop his call and pay attention to the humans beside him. He attempted a soft, querying whistle, but Mikaela was too incensed to hear him. She barreled over Sam's words with the tact of a bulldozer, gesturing violently. "No, _no_. I have worked too hard for this to just _stop _now. This is my thing. Am I not allowed to have a thing, Sam? Am I not allowed to have goals, have a purpose, be _fucking useful_ –"

"Mikaela, stand _down_."

Never before had Captain Starling raised her voice to her, and the severity of her tone came like a backhand to her face. Both Mikaela and Sam physically flinched away, the girl's mouth sealing itself shut. Bumblebee had gone quiet the minute Mikaela had began to rant, and he now stood silent and still before the Captain's anger.

The Captain's mouth was flat, the set of her jaw uncompromising. She shoved her face into Mikaela's, and it took everything in her to stand still and not back away. Instead she forced herself to meet the Captain's eyes, and let her arms tuck themselves across her chest in a defensive gesture.

"Are you quite done venting your spleen, your Majesty?"

Mikaela rolled her shoulders in irritation. "No." She grit out, and promptly bit her tongue as she watched the Captain's brows snap together. "But," she added quickly, "I'll let you go first."

They stood nose to nose for another moment, the Captain looming above her like a bird of prey. Finally, Starling leaned back and let her breath escape her in a hiss. "Damn straight you will, Princess."

Mikaela wisely chewed on her tongue instead of responding.

Starling's shoulders unwound, and she recovered from her aggressive stance to put a hand on her hip. "I _was_ going to finish up by telling you that Ratchet expects you to be in front of the computer at 2100 tonight, and not a jot after. He needs to go over your scheduling, so that you can help him finish your Frankenstein's monster."

Beside her, Sam made a choked noise in the back of his throat, but before he could speak, Mikaela let loose a whoop and threw her arms in the air. "_Ha_! I _knew _he wasn't going to ditch me!"

"But," Sam finally got a word in, "I thought you said that Optimus said – "

"Yes, well, that's what Optimus Prime says. He and Ratchet seem to have different opinions on the subject."

Bumblebee finally spoke up, softly. "He w-will not stop you from coming, iiiiif that is what you want-t-t." His voice cracked more than usual, and his posture was of one defeated; he stared at Sam for a moment, before nodding to the humans. "Iiii will talk to them, and sssee what is be-ee-ing arranged." And he took off down the beach, turning the corner and out of sight into the garage.

Sam blinked at the spot where Bumblebee had been, frowning. Then he rolled his eyes back towards the Captain, and huffed. "Well…goodbye, normal."

Starling snorted. "You consider yourself normal, do you?" They turned as a group, and Mikaela shot ahead of them to run up the steps, exuberance in the swish of her ponytail and the pounding of her feet. Behind her, Sam and Alexis came at a more sedate pace.

"Hey, I am the _Mayor _of Normalville, USA. Got two cars in the garage and a white picket fence…even though one of them's an alien and the fence is mostly metaphorical…"

The Captain groaned. "Forget I mentioned it."

* * *

It wasn't until much later that night that Mikaela discovered the Major's true reason for calling. She couldn't sleep for the adrenaline still pumping through her, making her fingertips tingle and her head light. She stepped outside onto the back porch, making an attempt to clear her thoughts with the salty ocean air.

She wandered down the uneven steps that took her towards the shore, not expecting to hear anything other than the rhythmic roar of the tide. Sam had actually crashed after dinner, claiming that he'd had enough excitement for one week and wanted to get one more uninterrupted night's sleep. Mikaela was slightly put off by this; he hadn't even waited to hear what Ratchet had to say, instead disappearing upstairs as soon as he'd cleared the table. She tried to shake it off; Sam could be prickly if you gave him too many surprises at once.

As she hit the beach, once more there came a murmur over the ocean's waves. Cocking her head, she ventured off in search of the voices. The sounds took her around the cove that hid the entrance to the garage, from where she could see light spilling onto the sand. Did Sam get up and sneak out without her knowing? Frowning thoughtfully, she took a few more steps until she had crossed the uneven ground that separated her from the outer wall of the garage.

"…_rather sneaky of you Autobots. More like those Decepticons you hate so much."_

The Captain's voice brought Mikaela up short. She hadn't even realized Alexis had left the house, much less came down here.

"_I - do not hate them. Not the way-ay you mean. It was at the req-q-quest of Major Lennox that I came here, rrrregardless, not Optimus –"_

"_Don't be coy. Optimus Prime may not have officiated the order, but I'll be you my plane it was his idea in the first place."_

There was something in the Captain's voice that made the greeting in Mikaela's throat die. It held a quality of irony to it that made it sound as if she were mocking Bumblebee, albeit subtly. Mikaela's brows drew down, and almost unconsciously she held her breath as she crept closer. What on Earth were those two talking about, anyway?

"_Perrrhaps. We can't be too careful, these-these days. Not even the sssoldier that guarded Sam's life a-a-at the Battle of Mission City is ex-shhh-empt from scrutiny."_

"_So do I pose a threat, or don't I? Speak _clearly_, Autobot Bumblebee. I'm tired of nuances and hidden agendas."_

_She does sound tired,_ Mikaela realized. As if a weight had been thrust upon her that she bore with ill grace.

With the thought came understanding. Her stomach sank as she beheld the implications of their speech. They were discussing their current visit, and all of the _hidden agendas_ that had brought them here. Optimus clearly wanted to keep an eye on her, since she was well on her way to full recovery after the events that had taken place nearly a year prior.

_That must mean they're ready to start recruiting. _The Captain's promotion wasn't just an honorary gesture; with it came a position within N.E.S.T., and all that implied. She had seen much of the Autobots – and the Decepticons – during the battle, and after she had woken from her coma. There were disclosure papers to sign, secrets to keep, technology that had to be kept from the people that would misuse it. It made sense to bring in a soldier that had previous experience with the Autobots, if only to keep eyes on them should they be approached, or if they decided they didn't want to keep quiet anymore.

Mikaela must have made a noise, or maybe Bumblebee had alerted her, but whatever the reason Alexis interrupted herself to call out to the girl. "Well? Quit lurking and get your arse in here." Her tone held an echo of the stern reprimand she had handed out to her earlier, and with a grimace Mikaela obeyed.

She ducked in through the lowered garage door, and stepped into the light. Despite herself she could feel the cold sweat of embarrassment break out at her temples, and she couldn't meet the Captain's eyes. Instead she settled for Bumblebee's, which was slightly less difficult. He cocked a brow ridge at her in question, and she shrugged abashedly. "Didn't actually mean to do that, sorry. I thought it might be you and Sam out here."

The Captain grunted. "Boy's out cold; I think he might have overloaded on information today." Bumblebee chirped in agreement.

When Alexis made no attempt to chastise her further, Mikaela relaxed a bit. With a sigh, she flopped against a tool rack, letting the familiar smells of grease and old leather comfort her. "I guess." She shifted, her thoughts taking her to uncomfortable places. "I just don't get why he's so against _change_. Y'know?" She waved a hand for emphasis, scowling. "It's like the second things start to shift, he loses his sea legs and tries to dive for dry land."

Bumblebee settled himself down across from Mikaela, waiting for her to finish. Gently he reached out to touch her chin, tilting her face up to his. "It's natural to feel fear in the face of change." He shook his head. "I know if I hadn't had Optimus and the others out there waiting for me, I would have been a lot more scared than I was when I first came here. And you humans are so _tiny_. So strange for someone like me to be afraid of you."

Mikaela placed her hand over his digit, smiling a little. "Thanks. It's a little comforting to know that the big robot aliens are afraid of the squishy organics."

His optics crinkled in mirth. "Just don't tell Ironhide I said that."

She laughed and patted him. "Cross my heart."

Behind them, all but forgotten, Alexis snorted. "Right, enough cuddling. Off to bed with you; _apparently_ your little vacation is being cut short, so you need to pack in the hours while you can."

The girl rolled her eyes at the Captain. "Doesn't that include you, too?"

"Hardly. I'm trained to withstand up to over ninety-six hours of wakefulness, should the need arise. I think I'll manage."

Mikaela stared at the Captain, wondering if she was joking; the woman's face remained perfectly stoic. After a minute, the girl shook her head. "You know…you're kind of a pompous jerk."

That made Alexis smile, rather dryly. "Well, I was raised by the most pompous of all jerks, so remind me to let him know he was successful."

The girl couldn't help it; she smirked. "You know, you're really good at segue ways. Go on," she flapped her free hand at the Captain, "don't let me keep you from your oh-so-secret conversation about working for the Autobots."

The Captain's smile twisted. "Nosy little chit, aren't you."

"Hey, it's not like we weren't going to find out anyway. Though you could have said something sooner," she turned to Bumblebee, scolding him. The bot in question shrugged haplessly, glancing between the two females.

"N-not my choice, but since you knnnow now…" He looked back down at the Captain, brightening a little. "How do you feel about car-carpooling?"

* * *

Feel free to drop me a line if you're enjoying the story (or found something wrong with it; I'm not picky). Don't be shy. It lets me know there's someone else out there enjoying this as much as I am. **TBC!**


	5. In Transit

Adding a little clarity to the end of the last chapter: Alexis took part in the Battle of Mission City, watching Sam's back and becoming grievously wounded as a result. After she recovered, she was handed a promotion and a position within the newly formed N.E.S.T., with the stipulation that she keep her mouth shut. Basically they pulled a Godfather on her. She's seen things she had no business seeing, much like the Marines, and now they want to keep a close eye on her and make use of her abilities at the same time.

Honestly, I had trouble with this (if that wasn't obvious enough by the hella long wait). I hope you enjoy it though. Also, much thanks to everyone who's reviewed, if I didn't already get to you. The quote is by Anatole France.

**Secondhand Sparks**

**Chapter Four: In Transit**

_All changes, even the most longed for, have their melancholy; for what we leave behind us is a part of ourselves. We must die to one life before we can enter another. _

In the end Captain Starling drove herself up the coast, Bumblebee and his humans in tow behind her. Mikaela spent a good part of the trip watching the Captain's old blue Fiat veer into the oncoming lane, blatantly disregarding the 'no passing' zones and other traffic. After the fourth enraged driver roared past them, blasting their horn and screaming obscenities out the window, she decided to give the older woman a call.

She tucked the cell into the crook of her shoulder, sitting sideways so she could fit her feet into Sam's lap. "You do remember you're in America, right? Land of the free, home of the yardstick?"

Mikaela swore she heard Alexis mutter something about 'barbarians that don't even use the bleeding metric system.' She smirked to herself. "Just checking."

Sam said something then, but it was lost beneath the roar of the wind coming through the open windows. "Hang on a sec." She put a hand over the mouthpiece, and he repeated himself. Laughing, she passed on the message. "Sam wants you to know that if the five-O gets you, consider yourself ditched."

"_They can try._ _This baby's got moves their ickle caddies can only dream about."_

Bumblebee, who had been shamelessly eavesdropping, let loose a snarl from his mufflers that Mikaela felt in her teeth. She grinned and leaned forward, eyeing the Fiat ahead of them. "That sounds a lot like a challenge, Captain."

Sam shot her a Look, moving to pat the steering wheel. "Now, guys, remember what the Major said – "

And then the breath was knocked out of him as the Autobot lurched forward, rubber burning as he pulled up beside the Fiat. Mikaela squealed and clung to her seatbelt, nearly dropping the phone in the process. Sam sputtered, and Bee laughed. When they turned to look, they found the Captain staring back from above the rims of her aviators. She flashed them a devastating grin, and raised two fingers in a little salute before using them to push up her shades. It was the last thing the three saw before the Fiat vanished from Bee's side. Sam's jaw dropped.

"Did she just…?"

"She totally did."

Sam pounded the wheel. "Oh, it is _on_, flygirl! C'mon Bee, show her how Autobots drive!"

* * *

It was just past noon by the time they arrived back in Tranquility. Alexis didn't linger, instead making for her new lodgings at N.E.S.T.'s temporary base. When they reached Mikaela's house, Sam helped her pull her trunks inside, even going so far as to haul them – slowly, agonizingly – up the stairs for her, as if to make up for his abysmal failure before. She kept her laughter hidden with a sweet smile and a kiss on his jaw; she knew he needed his manly moments.

Her Gramma was around here somewhere; her Buick was keeping Bumblebee company in the garage. But the kitchen was empty when she went to grab some iced tea, as was the den. Out of the corner of her eye she saw that the door to their cramped back porch was open, and meandered towards it. Voices floated in on the breeze; Mikaela blinked, and faltered. Everything slowed down, then, and she couldn't feel her feet as they sluggishly carried her to the doorway.

There was a man out there with Jodi, sitting with his back to her. From over his shoulder she could see her Gramma laughing, smiling, leaning forward to touch his arm. Then the older woman looked up, meeting Mikaela's eyes. The man twisted in his seat.

Jake Banes hadn't changed much since the last time his daughter had seen him; frequent visits to the State Pen kept them in contact. Dark hair that held a silver sheen was tied back in its ponytail, but his usual stubble was gone. Eyes as blue as hers crinkled in a face that had once held a healthy tan, now pale from being kept indoors. He grinned up at her.

Her shriek brought Sam running down the stairs, eyes wild. "Mikaela! What, _what_?! Is your grandma –"

He burst out onto the porch, and nearly bowled over both her and her dad, who were wrapped around each other tightly. As it was he still ran into them, flinging his arms around his girlfriend and, inadvertently, Jake.

Everyone froze. Slowly, the man lifted his head from his daughter's cheek to stare at the boy, who stared back, eyes wide as saucers.

Mikaela laughed, though it could just as easily been a sob.

It was all very abrupt, and Mikaela found herself wishing fervently she had never complained about Sam's inability to handle change. The irony of it had her wanting to chuck her toolbox across the room.

The three weeks before transfer flew by, of course. Everyone was busy, including Ratchet, so it was left to her to tell herself to suck it up and grow some ball bearings, please. Of the up side, she got to spend that time with her Dad. She wasn't expected to check in at the base, considering the state of things, and she was mostly grateful. That other, smaller, but no less passionate part of her was left wishing she could bury herself up to her shoulders in Barricade's innards like always.

It wasn't _fair. _But the government did not revolve around Mikaela's personal life, having more important things to worry about – such as relocating the aliens they were secretly harboring to a more secure location. If she'd had more time to prepare…but she couldn't blame Jodi for that; her Gramma hadn't any idea of the transfer when they called to give her Jake's release information. Thinking only to surprise her granddaughter, she had kept quiet, unaware that Mikaela's work would be whisking her away to an undisclosed place over a hundred miles away.

Sam had understood and bowed out gracefully for the time being, leaving her to her family. A handful of phone calls, mostly involving topics of everything she was going to miss in school, were all she got from him, and they left her feeling vaguely saddened and frustrated in turns. So it was with a heavy heart that Mikaela sat down alone with Jodi and Jake and explained that she couldn't stay; she had a job to do.

They took it relatively well (for a paranoid elderly woman and an even more paranoid ex-con, anyway). Of course she had to lie. It had been unanimously agreed upon (she didn't count) that spreading the Autobots' secret was too risky; she had the suspicion that her father's colorful background had played a part in this decision. It was totally _not _cool, but she grit her teeth and consented.

Her Dad was quiet as she explained to him the situation. It was a government-funded operation, she said, dealing with highly-advanced technology that couldn't be released to the public. She had a contract with them that demanded her utmost discretion. And it was all true…kind of. She adamantly ignored the uneasy feeling in her stomach as she lied to her father's face. She was sure that he could see right through her; years in prison demanded inbuilt BS radar.

So she told herself to suck it up and grow some ball bearings. It hurt like hell, but she managed it. She had other things to take care of, and if she let this drag out then she'd _never_ get anything done. School was only two weeks away by then, and of course she was scrambling to get all her paperwork in, signing up for the online classes and making sure her Gramma had hers in order, too. But she finally got it done, to the relief of everyone involved. She checked it off her mental list gratefully.

Between the paperwork, the interviews with her (now former) principal, and avoiding subjects with Sam, she spent time with her Dad, cruising the streets on his Monster, filling him in on the changes that had been made the last couple of years. He would eye the various body shops thoughtfully, wondering aloud if he should put the government's clean slate program to the test. If he had been released normally, his parole would have prevented him from venturing within at least a hundred yards of the shops. He had his daughter, and – to his eternal surprise – his daughter's boyfriend to thank for that.

She told him what she could – and the alien-free version was, in her opinion, just as extraordinary as the original. She and Sam had both gotten mixed up in politics, and if the government wanted the teenagers' cooperation, then concessions on both sides would have to be made. Mikaela gladly gave the credit for that particular stipulation to Sam, as was deserved.

Her father was one who understood secrets, and the necessity of them. In no way did that stop him from asking questions. Are you good at what you do? Is your boss a pain in the ass? (She sniggered at that one.) How long's your contract for?

That last one always made her pause, and he always noticed. His blue eyes got a little narrower every time._ Indefinitely_, she should say. _A couple of years,_ she always replied. It wasn't a lie, not really. She knew it would be at least that long. Despite her many reassurances, he didn't like it. Not at all. He was much like the Witwickys when it came to government affiliation; you could dress it up in roses, but it still came up smelling like crap.

And she hadn't even mentioned the Ducati yet. If there was anything that would push Jake over the edge and into the murky waters of Proactive Parenting, it was his other baby. Primus help her.

* * *

Despite her father's presence, and Ratchet's mandates, it took everything in Mikaela to keep away from the warehouse the next few weeks. There were plenty of people more knowledgeable than her working on the relocation; she would only be in the way (so she told herself, and Ratchet was quick to affirm). He commed her once or twice to ascertain her health –was she sleeping, was she eating, was she_ breathing_ – and then promptly ignored her, telling her in no uncertain terms that he had enough to deal with there and she that needed to mind her own business. She knew it was just his way of making sure she took care of her own.

It was hard, though, to put her life's work on the back burner. Throughout the next week she found herself halfway across town several times, on her way to the base. Frustrated, she would pound the wheel and hit the brakes, swearing profusely. They were _so close_. As soon as she got the next few days out the way, she'd be on the fast track to godhood and her very own medic's license. It was a heady feeling, and the hours couldn't pass by fast enough.

At one point she got a call from Captain Starling (sure, Ratchet, give_ everyone_ my comm. frequency. Fragger.). This conversation, too, was succinct and on the dry side. Mostly it involved talk of paperwork, the status of her toolkit, and the general idiocy of the American bureaucratic system. Come to think of it, it was rather like talking to a female Ratchet. That was a terrifying thought – two of the most cynical, OCD-ridden people she'd ever met in the same vicinity of one another. As if she didn't have enough to worry about.

Sam, of course, was constantly on the edge of her thoughts. Memories of the beach would rear their heads at the most inopportune times, of Sam's face when Alexis had announced that they were relocating. It gnawed at her, that look. Whenever she would dwell on it, an uneasy feeling would spread through her. She should be doing something about it, but she found that it was easier to talk about Bumblebee, or Mojo, or his work, the grass, anything but what needed to be said. The uneasy feeling settled and became stagnant as the weeks went by.

And what was wrong with Bumblebee? She had never gotten a chance to talk to him, not since his strange behavior at the beach. He had obviously been left in the dark about Diego Garcia; was that it? Was he upset about the move? The questions kept piling up, and she found that she was afraid to ask even one of them. Avoidance was a skill she was quickly embracing.

Time flew, and suddenly one afternoon she was hanging on to Jodi for dear life, tears in her eyes as she muttered a goodbye into her shoulder. Then it was her Dad's turn, and she repeated the gesture. He backed up, coughing into his fist as she tried to pretend she hadn't seen the tears in his eyes. Her Gramma cracked her hand towel at them, denouncing the two of them as pansies. It helped.

Then Jake picked up something off the table that she hadn't noticed before, a small, oblong box wrapped shoddily in…yeah, that was Christmas paper. She stared as he offered it to her, not knowing what to do. He grunted irritably, grabbing one of her hands and shoving the box into it. She stared some more.

"…I'm not supposed to wait for Christmas, am I? Because I do get vacations, you know –"

"Oh, God, girl, just open it."

She did, and then the tears that she'd been holding valiantly at bay flooded her.

She was holding a brand new, apple red pair of Chuck Taylors. Stars and all.

He coughed again, smoothing one hand across his hair. "I noticed your old ones, ah, gettin' a bit small. Thought you could use 'em. You know, if you needed a quick ride back home." _My ruby slippers. He remembered._

Yeah, okay. She was a pansy. But he was too, so it was alright. She threw her arms around him one more time, for one brief, painful moment not wanting to ever let go. To stay home with her daddy, and have him take her for rides on his motorcycle and have her recite all the pieces to a '69 Mustang Cobra Jet. Then the moment passed, as they all did, and she smiled and gave him a loud, sloppy kiss on the cheek. He laughed, but didn't push her away like he usually would.

Mikaela never did ask for the bike; she'd do it over the holidays, or the next time she visited, or – sometime. In any case, something was telling her not to do it. So she let it go, and said her goodbyes.

And then, as she headed down the sidewalk towards where her moped was waiting, Jake called her back. She turned on the spot, expecting some last minute jibe about Sam or to watch her back around government folk. So she was totally unprepared when something flashed in the sunlight as Jake tossed it at her.

She snagged it from the air, and looked down at her prize.

She took off for Sam's on the Monster, her heart full and a grin stretching her face. She had escaped relatively unscathed, but for the ringing in her ears and a vow, on pain of death, to return it, along with herself, in one piece. It was a promise she was happy to make.

Sam was equally impossible to say goodbye to, in his own way. He and Bumblebee both stood there in his back yard, wringing their hands in tandem. Both of their faces were downcast, but Sam's mouth had a tightness to it that augmented the feeling in her belly. _No, not now, I can't do this now,_ she pleaded with him silently. Then he sighed, and tried to smile, doing a better job at it then she would have thought.

"So, ah, you gonna drive to the coast or what?" He eyed the Monster behind her dubiously. "Doesn't look like it would be too comfortable. I mean, for hours on end. Your end."

_Thank you_, a little piece of her said, and she laughed aloud. "Maybe. I might just trade out with Ratch some of the time, to keep my _end _from chafing."

That got her a smarmy little grin. "Just making sure your assets are protected."

Mikaela kissed him then, if only to hide the tears in her eyes. Stupid, to think that his third grade humor could reduce her to this. She leaned to put her mouth to his ear, cupping his jaw. "Sweet boy," she murmured, "always taking care of me."

She felt him smile again, the laugh lines around his mouth feathering against her cheek. Mikaela closed her eyes to soak in the warmth that he offered, and slid her arms around his neck. He wrapped his own around her waist, hands hot against her back where they pressed her to him. They stayed that way for a time, and she tried not to count the seconds.

At their side she heard Bumblebee chirp softly. Mikaela lifted her head to smile at him. "Of course you're getting a hug. Don't even think about trying to get out of it."

Sam, however, had other ideas, so she freed one arm to offer it up to Bumblebee. Chittering wordlessly, he ducked his head until his cheek pressed into Mikaela's hair, and very carefully wrapped his much longer limbs around the two humans. She lifted her head until she was pressing back, reaching up to curl her arm around his.

After a minute, Sam started to shift uneasily. "Um, ok, are we done with the group hug thing? Because I think I can feel my manly points dropping."

"Way to kill the mood, Sam. Thanks."

She finally shook herself free from him to give Bumblebee a more proper goodbye. When he started leaking wiper fluid, however, she drew the line. "Alright, you big baby, enough. You wanna make me cry, too?"

"_Baby don't hurt me – no more!"_

"Oh my _God,_ don't you dare. I will turn around and leave _right now_ if you keep playing that."

He stopped.

An hour or so later found them brushing off the grass stains they had accumulated. Sighing, Mikaela wrapped both boys in her arms one more time, holding them to her as tightly as she could. It was past time she left; dragging this out wasn't good for anyone, and she'd told Ratchet she'd be there by dark.

Sam caught her as she pulled away, fingers digging into the nape of her neck. He breathed deep against her, and she let him. Finally he loosed his hold, fingers tangling together between them. He set his jaw in that way he had, and the feeling rose again, smothering her.

She tried to head him off. "Sam. Sam." She got him to look at her, and the words nearly died in her throat. She pushed on. "_It's my life_."

His expressive eyes were bright, and she thought she knew what he would say.

But all he said was, "I know."

They watched each other for a minute. Finally Mikaela relaxed as the look in his eyes became clear.

He murmured again, "I _know_." And he squeezed her hands for emphasis.

That ugly, stagnant thing inside her chest lightened just the tiniest bit.

It wasn't an apology, or a demand for one. It wasn't an explanation, or an argument, or an accusation. But it would tide her over for now.

* * *

That evening Mikaela checked into the base, only a day away from relocation. She wasn't allowed near Barricade; Ratchet had her packing up the smaller, handheld equipment that he claimed was too delicate for him to manage. Mikaela knew better; he was giving her busy work. She didn't care, even though it took her long into the night to finish. It kept her mind off of the more delicate things _she_ didn't want to manage – her dad, Sam. Between the two of them she had managed to chew her lips raw.

She wasn't abandoning them. It wasn't like that, not at all. Was it her fault they decided to spring her dad at this exact point in time? Was it her choice for Sam to stay at home in Tranquility? Well, _no_. It all came down to ethics, and she was going to see this through.

She wasn't leaving them. They were staying behind.

It was that evening, after lying down on her cot amidst packing peanuts and flattened boxes, that the nightmares came back.

* * *

The air was thick with the stench of sulfur and charred meat. Like the way Hell might smell, if it were real. Maybe that's where she was. Around her came a cacophony of noise – roaring and grinding and shaking – all pounding its way into her skull. She couldn't find her bearings, hair and tears blinding her as she fumbled for something solid to cling to.

From the din she picked out a sharp, hoarse voice – _you're a soldier now! _– But Sam's response was a smear of meaningless sound. The ground shook from impact as a giant strode towards them, roaring, and she whirled away, desperate to escape. But something wouldn't let her; something kept her feet moving in the opposite direction, toward Sam's voice. Bee, Bumblebee was hurt - _oh God his legs, where are his legs_ – and she couldn't run away. She was too terrified.

Something wrapped around her arm, and she threw herself backwards, panicking. Looked up into blazing green eyes - _you're going the wrong way, girl, safety's in the other direction_ – and she knew that, but for some reason her mouth wasn't working. The soldier's grip tightened, and Mikaela spun out of those grasping hands to run to her friends. Shouting came from behind her, but nothing that made any sense.

_We've got to help him._ She ran past the two young men – only one wasn't really, he was a giant – towards the abandoned truck. It was familiar beneath her hands, and she ran shaking fingers across it until she found what she needed. Tires squealed, but the sound was lost to the storm around her. She and Sam wrapped Bumblebee up good and tight, vivid blue eyes watching their every move.

_Girl, go on, get out of here! _

_I can't, I'm not _leaving_ him._

The storm drew in around them, deafening her. _You're a soldier now._ But no, that wasn't right. She was just a girl. Just a girl.

A blur of brown and green. _Run, you've got to run! I'll cover you! _The woman, the green-eyed soldier, grabbed the back of Sam's jacket, pushing him along. _Go, boy! We don't have much time!_

Something about this didn't seem right, but she already knew what she was going to do, as if it had happened before. She saw it all laid out: Bumblebee sighting down his rifle haphazardly, hitting whatever he aimed at. Two figures getting smaller and smaller in the distance; a woman in a green jacket, and a boy in a torn hoodie clutching something precious against his chest. Two giants were chasing them – no – were watching them, guarding them. They disappeared into a building, and all she saw was the back of Bumblebee's helm, the flash of his rifle muzzle. Metal and asphalt ground together, sparks flying around them.

A resounding _boom _echoed, and she saw one of the menacing giants collapse slowly, pieces falling around it as if it were melting. Was it over? She looked back down the road; saw nothing but destruction. She knew it wasn't, even as she hoped. Even before she turned and saw him, she knew it would be Optimus Prime diving headlong down the street, rifle up and battle mask on. Her stomach heaved at the sight, and she squeezed her eyes shut for just a second.

It took an eternity to happen. She didn't really hear it, but she knew Sam was screaming. She wanted to scream too, wanted to warn the Captain – _the other way, go the _other way_!_ – but it was too late. The walls had already given way, the explosion knocking her straight off the edge of the white tower. She felt Sam's horror and helplessness as he lunged for her, but he might as well have been standing still.

When she finally opened her eyes, Optimus was crouching back down, rifle discarded at his feet. Something in his hands, another weapon of some kind – no, a girl, a girl like her, only broken. Too still to be anything but.

Mikaela tried to catch her breath, but it felt as if the air around her had evaporated, leaving her stranded in a vacuum. She threw herself out of the truck, feet moving without her telling them to, running towards her friend she had strapped to the back of it. She wanted to turn around, wanted to watch the helicopter spin and dip, exploding in a white-hot supernova, propelling Sam off the top of the tower. She knew it was happening, even as she dove back into the cab to haul Bumblebee down the street towards the Marines. Even as she drove, she saw Optimus' other hand reach out and catch the boy, cradling the two small bodies to him.

The monster that rose above them all roared, the sheer rage it emanated causing the ground to buckle and split. Terror drove her foot to the floorboard, the accelerator creaking from the force. Before she realized it, she had drawn level with the soldiers, grimy, soot-streaked faces staring at her in consternation. A hand smacked against her door, a mouth opened to say something –

And then she looked up, and saw moonlight reflecting off the canary yellow of a Camaro, only it wasn't a Camaro. It watched them from its towering height on the hill, waiting for something. Her lower vantage point in the gravel pit left her feeling very small.

Sam's fingers brushed hers for just an instant, but she felt it linger even after he pulled away. There was no sound, no speech, no breath. Everything hung suspended, and she couldn't remember what she was supposed to do next. They all watched one another, and the words she needed to say hung in her throat, forgotten. The warmth from her friend's hand became chilled, and when she looked down she saw that his fingers were pale and stiff. Feeling as if she were sleepwalking, she slowly looked back up, and saw the blue tint of his lips, the glazed emptiness of his eyes.

From his other side the Captain observed the pair, her expression remote. When she spoke, her voice was low and calm. _It's too late, you know._

Mikaela met the woman's eyes, seeing for the first time the darkness that seemed to swallow the green irises whole. When had her eyes been green? She couldn't remember. A little frown puckered her brow. _But there's still time._

_You can't go back. It's too late. _The Captain reached out to turn Mikaela around, and when she looked she saw the dark, empty road that had been behind her, disappearing into the desert. She strained towards it, but the chain-link fence barred her way. She could feel its prongs digging into her flesh. She glanced down, and saw cold light reflecting off the metal talons that held her there. Her gaze followed it up, and up, into the star-lit night, catching a flash of twin red beacons high above. Frightened, she ducked away from those hands, craning her neck to look for Bumblebee, but her friend was gone. Everyone was gone. They were alone in the gravel pit.

She wanted to find the road again, but it was still blocked by the razor-wire fence. Sighing in frustration, she turned to make her way up the hill, but stopped halfway. In the Camaro's place stood a colossal motorcycle, black as pitch, the rays of the floodlights seeming to stop just short of its shadow.

Entranced, she drew nearer, drinking in the machine. Wide mounted handlebars swept out like demons' horns, framing a broad expanse of chassis devoid of any markings. Jagged six-inch spoilers jutted out menacingly to either side of narrow tires whose treads looked like they could shred steel.

It was a thing of malevolent beauty, and she wanted badly to touch it. Her palms itched with the need, and she took the last few steps forward without hesitation to run a hand confidently down the handlebars. At her touch the engine snarled to life, a malicious sound that she could feel all the way down to her toes. The spoilers quivered angrily, and as she trailed her fingers across the frame she saw the chassis ripple with her movements, like a lazy cat enjoying its mistress' attentions.

She waited for a voice – _get in the car_ – but it never came. She tilted her head, a slow, dull frustration building inside of her. She was supposed to go somewhere, wasn't she? Why weren't they telling her to go? Idly she tapped a finger against the saddle, feeling the machine lurch impatiently beneath her hand.

It was time. She couldn't wait any longer.

Without another thought she slung a leg across the monster, sliding into position effortlessly. She had only just settled into the seat when the machine leapt forward, a dark horse breaking from the gate. Asphalt was ground to dust beneath them, rising around them like a shroud.

The fence was gone, and before them sprawled the highway, a ribbon of darkness disappearing into the endless wasteland. To either side rose a gauntlet of stars, glittering coldly from their blanket of deepening blue. It was the only thing left that she could see, so she set her heel down, bracing herself, and felt the machine fishtail. Down the hill, out of the pit, and onto the highway they rode, its engine roaring like the blood in her ears. She didn't look back.

* * *

Slowly, feeling as if she were swimming in Jell-O, Mikaela awakened. She peeled her eyelids apart, squinting against the bare bulb that hung over her corner. For a full minute she stared blearily into the shadows that lay across the enormous room, not registering her surroundings.

Finally she blinked, and swallowed experimentally. Her mouth was cotton-dry. She pushed herself upright, causing a small explosion of peanuts around her. Wiping at her face found more of the little Styrofoam pieces adhered to her cheeks and hair.

The dream clung to backs of her eyelids just like those peanuts, and she scrubbed at them angrily. _Girl, you're cracked._

She hadn't had a dream like that in months, and she wasn't sure what had triggered it. Fear, perhaps; fear of leaving, fear of abandonment. It was stupid, but it kind of made sense.

The memory of dread was strong, and goose bumps rose on Mikaela's flesh. The Captain really had fallen, and spent nearly four months in a coma as a result. If Optimus hadn't been there – her stomach twisted, and abruptly she stood. With a quiet huff, she shook off the remaining peanuts, and retied her hair. It wouldn't do her any good to sit there and remember; that time was long gone, and she had things to do.

Glancing around, she was not completely shocked to find that the room had been stripped totally bare. It looked more like an empty warehouse than it probably had before the Autobots had taken over.

She was, however, appalled to see that the tank was gone, and the resulting jolt of alarm woke her right up. She swept her gaze past the empty space where the protoform had once been, tamping stubbornly down on the panic that seized her. Ratchet wouldn't let anything happen to him, she was sure. All the same, it would have made her feel worlds better if she had been awake to supervise the move. Sneaky bastard, he had to have done that on purpose.

Mikaela eventually left the now-defunct Med bay, wandering down the echoing, empty corridors. Finally she came to what had passed for a courtyard, and saw Optimus. He stood alone in the open space, face raised up to the night sky. She knew without asking that he was scanning every wavelength, scouring every scrap of white noise and unfiltered sound that passed through the frequencies. For a minute she wavered, hesitant to interrupt him.

He made the decision for her, pulling himself reluctantly away from the spread of stars to turn to her. With an apologetic shrug, she stuffed her hands into her pockets. "Still nothing, huh?"

"Not yet."

Pistons hissing quietly, he knelt before her, offering his hand. She pulled her own from their hiding places to hang onto his thumb. He rose smoothly back to his feet, and then she was being held up at a more comfortable level. As one they turned their faces back to the sky, both searching the heavens for a sign that they weren't sure would ever come.

Mikaela curled an arm around his digit as she settled herself into his palm, and stretched her feet across the width of it, just brushing his armor. She wriggled her toes in their worn sneakers idly, letting Optimus gather his thoughts. He was silent for another few moments, his fingers flexing unconsciously around her, cupping her to his chest. With a low sigh she leaned into the crease between his thumb and palm, feeling the subtle thrum of energy reverberate through her.

After a time, he spoke. "Time passes differently for us. If you were to compare the life cycle of a butterfly to that of a human, then you would come close to a Cybertronian's time span."

It wasn't what she was expecting. But neither was it news to her, so she kept her silence. He continued.

"It is strange to think that you have seen so much, accomplished so many things, all in the time it would take for a sparkling to reach his first upgrade. Perhaps it is this lifespan that is the cause of so much war and strife here."

Mikaela shifted a little, leaning back to get a better look at him. "What do you mean, Optimus?"

"It takes us Cybertronians many times longer to achieve a goal, to realize a thought. While our processors run that much faster than your brains, all it takes for a human to make a choice is a hundredth of a nanosecond to us. How much living you must press into a few cycles of your sun is astonishing. You must live, grow, learn , love, hate and die – all of these and so many more - in such an infinitesimal amount of time. No wonder your species is such a passionate one."

The speech was of a length that soon her whole body was resonating with the echo of his words. Her feet, pressed as they were into his chest, tingled as his voice thrummed through them. It was a giddy feeling, and she wound both arms around his thumb to keep from fidgeting. From his vantage point he watched her, waiting patiently for her to settle.

Eventually she looked back up at him, brows tilted in contemplation. "You're probably right. Maybe that's why we kill each other, too. I mean," she let go briefly to wave an arm in emphasis, "look at how many people are born and how many die every single day – every single turn of the world. It's a breakneck pace, and I guess we're all just trying to keep up."

She could see him taking that and turning it over in his head. He nodded after a moment. "The human race is a fleeting one. Perhaps, realizing the restraints of time, it has formed its own sort of evolution. You realize that my own people have hardly changed in millions of years. We have been at war since before the human race was, in fact, a race."

"That would make Bumblebee about as old as this planet, right?"

"Technically, yes. Not entirely, but close enough."

Mikaela had to laugh at that.

He went on. "But the course of human evolution runs so much more quickly than ours. It is a wonder that you have not burned yourself out of existence by now."

"Oh, believe me, we've tried." She snorted.

Optimus made a musing sound. "But I believe that is the crux of your situation. You have tried so hard to reach beyond your limitations, past your own mortality. All of your history is on one long, endless loop, yet you survive, and more so, _thrive._ It is amazing to behold."

She smiled at the awe in his voice.

Some time passed without either speaking, then. It was not an uncomfortable silence; rather, their thoughts stretched between them, not quite touching, at peace with the other.

Eventually he shifted Mikaela so that she could crawl up onto a pauldron, and she nestled there between a smokestack and the crook of his neck. Idly she studied the seams that marched up the column of his throat, up to the network of gears that held his jaw in place. _Mandible_, she recited to herself, _zygomatic, temporal…_It really was fascinating how similar the species were. What made a race propel itself up onto bipedals, to swing only two arms at its sides, to have its heart located in the region of its chest?

_Maybe,_ she thought, _maybe there really is something out there creating us in its own image._

She wished she had the guts to ask about girl Cybertronians. After hearing Bumblebee's side of things, however, she thought it might be best to wait until she had Ratchet's attention instead. Was there a female version of the Prime? Had they been warriors, as well, or did they leave the fighting to the mechs? _Did you lose someone, too?_ There was still so much she didn't know, so much they kept hidden.

The girl tilted her head back, looking beyond Optimus into the velvety dark sky. A thin sliver of a moon hung there, and beyond that, the stars shone brightly. The arid atmosphere helped, and Mikaela was distantly grateful that she lived where she did. For a few moments she watched, letting her mind wander past Optimus and the moon, out to far-off places she had never seen. She thought on leaving, and being left behind.

Her dream came back to her, then. _It's too late,_ she thought sadly, and suppressed a shiver.

"Optimus?"

"Yes, Mikaela?"

Maybe she shouldn't say anything. But he was the only one who might answer kindly. Her voice was very small when she asked, "Are all of those stars dead now?"

One enormous hand came up, cupping around her, and for a brief moment stars both dead and living were blotted out as she was cradled to him. _A hug_, she thought, _he's hugging me_.

"Not all the stars, Mikaela. Not all. Some are just beginning their journey, and those that have passed...well, even dead stars burn bright."

* * *

The next day dawned bright and clear, and it stayed that way throughout her journey west. The California air felt good as she sped into it, feeling almost as if she was sailing on the high seas, cutting across waves that parted for the majestic bulk of her ship. It was a heady, fanciful sensation, and she welcomed it. She leaned back, feeling the pull of the road and the wind, and didn't think of Sam at all.

The other half of her time was spent in Ratchet's cab, dozing, chatting, or playing Tetris on her new computer tablet, a demo version that had yet to be released to the public. It was _awesome_, and she couldn't stop fiddling with it. Rumor had it Apple had one in the works, but that wouldn't be for another few years. She was very pleased with herself, as a result.

After a time Alexis pulled up in her Fiat, as usual disregarding any and all trafficking laws, and the two exchanged pleasantries over the roar of the wind. Ratchet finally pulled away, snapping at her to either use her phone or Sign Language, he was trying to cruise here, for Primus' sake. After that she went back to her nifty tablet, silently vowing to ignore him the next time _he_ wanted a decent conversation.

After a good five hours or so, and a couple of seat swaps, their convoy began to meander south, skirting around San Francisco. They hit the coast around mid-afternoon. Mikaela had her visor up, and the salt air stung her eyes before it ever came into view. Then they crested a low hill, and there was the ocean sprawling grand and endless, fading into the sky. It was a sight she had been privy to many times, but this one was different. This time she wouldn't be stopping at the end of the shallows; she'd be going right over the edge of the horizon.

Leaning low over the bars she hit the throttle, letting the snarl of the Monster shred the air behind her as she sped to the front of the caravan. She could hear Ratchet hollering after her, but she was well-practiced at tuning him out, and soon she had left him in the dust. She passed a multitude of armored military trucks; the third of which she knew housed Barricade. Ahead she saw the Captain, studiously keeping to the right side of the road with a fierce scowl and white knuckles (apparently the Major had rung her up, warning her - repeatedly - that they didn't need any more attention than they were already going to be getting, and could you please not flip me off? I can see you in my rearview, and _yes_ I know what that means.).

Then she was past Starling, who glared after her with what was surely a case of driving envy, and was up beside Optimus, heading up the convoy. He was practicing using his hologram, and the sight of it made her giggle. It looked like he had decided on the cowboy hat. There had been a debate not too long ago between the merits of such a hat, versus the much-venerated trucker's cap; he had said that the ball cap gave him hat hair. Mikaela wasn't sure if he even knew what that meant, but she thought the cowboy hat suited him better, anyway.

Mikaela cruised beside him for a bit, blatantly ignoring the Major's low-profile rule. She gave a jaunty wave, and to her delight he responded with a loud, sharp execution of his cab whistle. She burst out laughing.

Eventually she pulled ahead, pretending for a moment she was a scout, running ahead of the expedition to blaze a trail where no one had ever dared trek before. Mikaela leaned back and pulled off her helmet, letting the wind tear through her straggling braid. The air bit at her, making her eyes water again, but she kept them wide open. Still she didn't think of Sam, or her dad. She pretended she was utterly alone on this vast stretch of ancient highway, and was content.

They kept on for two, three more hours; she was the first to lay eyes on the small, shabby port that housed the ferries. The loading process took no time at all, and then they were at sea, the ferry's motors rumbling beneath her new sneakers.

Mikaela only watched the receding shore for a minute or two. Then she decided she'd had enough of that, and moved to the prow of the ferry, keeping to the top level. She met Alexis there, and the two women stood at the rail in silence, watching the sun sink into water turned blood-red. The fiery horizon marched onward, and they chased it, trailing a blanket of stars behind them.

The Captain and she were the first to spot it; a dim silhouette against the darkening sky. Her heart leapt in her chest, and beside her the Captain smiled, a rare occurrence. "Will you look at that," Alexis murmured.

Mikaela realized she was holding her breath, and made herself let it go. She looked, and felt awed_. I'm here. I did it._

Her feet were the first to hit the sand.

* * *

The first draft of that last scene was about five sentences long. Go figure. Next up – what everyone and their elderly aunts have been waiting for. _The_ chapter. And guess what? It's already halfway done. You're welcome.

As usual, concrit and/or general displays of enjoyment/dissatisfaction are welcome. Have at it.


End file.
